


Brotection (Or Something Like That)

by leisamber (samisaywhat)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Artist Derek Hale, Character Death, F/M, Lawyers, M/M, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-12 21:17:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4495059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samisaywhat/pseuds/leisamber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laura Hale, Executive Assistant District Attorney, is murdered just as she is about to finish a big case. With the crime unsolved, her family tries to go about living their lives without her in it. When someone tries to kill her brother as well, the youngest sister takes charge and hires an odd group of professionals to keep her brother alive. Unfortunately, much to Cora’s chagrin, Derek doesn’t believe anyone is out to get him nor does he have any faith in the group his sister hires.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a joint story between leikeating, samisaywhat, and tballontumblr on tumblr. We hope you enjoy! :) This was written during Season 3, so unfortunately before Kira. She would have been a fun addition otherwise!

“Look, you need to relax and wait for the Judge to approve the search warrant. You’ll ruin the entire investigation if you bust through those doors right now.”

“And what if he gets back while we’re waiting for a piece of paper?”

“Don’t use that tone with me, Mercer. I’m trying to make this easier for you.”

“You mean you’re making this easier for yourself.”

Laura rolls her eyes and bites her tongue before she can say anything more. It’s been a difficult week for both of them, so she can understand Mercer’s foul mood. They’re both overworked and tired. Laura knows that there must be dark circles under her eyes now with the amount of hours she’s been pulling, and yes, she does want to make the case easier for herself. She also doesn’t want the case to go down the drain because someone couldn’t wait for a search warrant. God forbid they go by the book.

“Just… don’t do something we’re going to regret.” Laura decides on, shaking hair out of her face. She’d tie it up if her hands were free. The line is silent for a few beats before Mercer speaks up.

“Yeah, alright,” he says, “How much longer?”

“Erica should be getting back to me right now. She knows we’re on a deadline.” Laura goes to check her watch before remembering that she left it on her nightstand in the rush to get dressed. It wouldn’t be the first time a case has woken her up at ungodly hours, and it surely won’t be the last time. Laura loves her job, but she can really do without the sleepless nights.

“Call me as soon as she does. I don’t want Johnson getting back before we even get in the apartment.” Mercer hangs up, leaving Laura just a tad bit annoyed. If Mercer wasn’t actually good at his job, she would simply stop working with him. She’d honestly love to push all of the work onto Erica, who gets along with Mercer just fine. She suspects it has a lot to do with Erica’s choice of clothing. It’s the perfect combination of smart and sexy. Laura used to dress like that, and looking down at the wrinkled shirt she’s wearing, she feels a little envious.

Laura pockets her phone and goes to the bathroom to freshen up a little. If Mercer was right about Johnson’s apartment, they’ll be in for a long night. Hopefully they’ll find the murder weapon and finally put the man behind bars. Laura would feel infinitely better if she could just get him in the courtroom. There’s not a doubt in her mind that she could get the jury to put him away. She’s seen Johnson once, the first time they brought him in, and the man looks like a murderer.

Just as she’s applying her lipstick, thankfully looking less like a dead person, Erica busts through the doors with a folder clutched against her hip. She is out of breath as if she had ran, and Laura notes the high heels on her feet.

After a minute of breathing, Erica walks over and presents the folder. “Got it.” b

“Thank heaven, Erica, you’re a lifesaver. We have to call—“

“Already called him. They’re storming the apartment right now.” Erica smiles smugly, and Laura could kiss her.

“Good,” she says in relief, stretching the word for emphasis, “because if I had to deal with Mercer for another second, I’d have to prosecute myself.”

“I can’t believe you guys argue so much.” Erica fixes her shirt in the mirror, adjusting her bra while she’s at it.

“He’s a pain in my ass at the best of times.” Laura goes back to fixing her makeup, applying another streak of lipstick to her bottom lip. She rubs her lips together before blowing a half hearted kiss to her reflection. She can hear Erica’s snicker as she rummages through her purse for mascara.

“Here.” Erica says fondly, offering her own. They’ve used the same brand ever since Laura lent Erica her mascara months ago. The memory is almost depressing. Erica was fresh into the world of law and terrified. Laura took pity and took her under her wing. How she misses the simple days.

“I love you.” Laura crows, uncapping it gratefully and sweeping the dark mixture under her lashes. She really doesn’t need to wear mascara, but she likes the added darkness, and no one can really complain about the added length.

She turns her face a couple of times in the mirror before deciding that she’s pleased with the results. Her hair is another story entirely, so she just pulls it back into a neat ponytail.

They’re both getting a well-deserved cup of coffee when Laura’s phone rings. It’s Mercer. Laura casts a glance to the ceiling, silently praying that he’s got good news, before answering.

“Hale.”

“We’ve got two guns, both matching the murder weapon.” Mercer says, making no attempt to cover the happiness in his voice. They’re all a little twisted to be so happy over a pair of guns.

“How long for fingerprint analysis?” She asks, shaking her fist excitedly at Erica.

“Just meet us back at the station. My men already have Johnson in custody. Found him trying to purchase a plane ticket.”

“That’s not the least bit incriminating. Everyone needs a vacation.”

“Stop with the bad sarcasm and get a move on.” Laura is sure that Mercer’s rolling his eyes and asking God why he was stuck with someone like her. She does share the sentiment, sometimes.

▲

Mercer’s got Johnson in questioning when Laura waltzes into the station, Erica on her heels. They rush to the interrogation room, meeting the Chief behind the glass. Laura nods her greeting before turning to the two-way mirror to watch the interrogation. Mercer may be a pain in her ass, but when it comes to this, he was a godsend. The man never went against protocol, and as much as his demeanor suggested he would be violent, he was rather calm while sitting across from some of the worst criminals.

Johnson is as violent as they come. They have to handcuff him to the chair to prevent him from lunging across the table. He practically vibrates in his seat as Mercer continues to talk at him. As usual, Johnson answers no questions and doesn’t respond to threats. That is until Mercer places a photo on the table.

“Do you know what this is?” Mercer smirks, sliding it across the table so that it stops in front of Johnson. He doesn’t say anything but there’s a noticeable change to the look in his eyes. Laura knows Mercer must see it because he stands and walks behind Johnson’s chair.

“Those are the murder weapons that we found. It’s weird because you told us that you didn’t even know how to shoot a gun.” Mercer continues on conversationally. Johnson shrinks in on himself just a bit.

“You wouldn’t believe where we found those. There’s this apartment complex, and we went to the third floor. You know the place, don’t you?” Mercer digs into his back pocket before tossing something else down on the table. Laura can’t tell what it is, but it’s in an evidence bag. “Of course you do, you’ve got mail going there for you.

That seems to break through Johnson’s façade. His face scrunches up into an ugly scowl as he continues to look down at the evidence in front of him. His shoulders strain against his restraints and his chair rocks under him. Mercer places a strong arm on the back of the chair to steady him, a smug smirk on his lips. Laura mirrors with her own even though she knows Mercer can’t see it.

“We have your prints and we have the prints on the gun as well. I wonder if they’ll match.” Mercer says, leaning over Johnson to snatch the picture and the evidence bag off the table. Johnson’s head snaps up, narrowly missing Mercer’s chin. He looks like he wants to say something but is having a mental war with himself about it. Laura crosses her fingers in hopes that he’ll give away something that they can use against him. Of course the universe is against giving her any leverage, so Johnson just says, “I want my lawyer.”

Mercer folds his arms. “I bet you do.”

They leave Johnson handcuffed to his chair, much to his displeasure. Mercer joins them behind the glass and he looks happier than he has been for weeks. Laura just grins right back at him.

“I’ll go contact his lawyer,” Erica says with her phone already in hand. She excuses herself quickly.

“Good job in there, Mercer. You actually had him shaking in his chair.” Laura gives him a thumbs up before turning to the Chief. “How long before the prints are back?”

“Now who’s waiting on paper.” Mercer preens a little.

“You guys are like four year olds, I swear.” Chief Williams sighs.

“But you love me,” Laura says sweetly, ignoring the way Mercer is practically itching to make a comment.

“The prints will be back within the hour. This case is our top priority.” Williams says, waving her hands in a dismissive manner. She turns to say something to Mercer, but reconsiders before leaving the room. Mercer looks like he’s been scolded anyway. Laura walks to the door, looking at him over her shoulder.

“Let’s get some coffee while we wait?”

Mercer contemplates the idea before shrugging, “Yeah, ok.”

Erica is still on the phone when they make it to the coffee machine. She’s nursing a warm cup, and seems to be laughing at a joke. It’s obvious that she’s no longer on the phone with Johnson’s attorney. Laura takes a seat on the long couch while Mercer makes the both of them coffee. In her fatigue even the couch’s softness feels dreamlike. She’d love to do nothing less than curl up and fall asleep right there.

Mercer chooses that exact moment to offer Laura a foam cup that she takes with enthusiasm. She gives him a hum of approval after tasting it. Mercer takes a seat next to her and they sit in companionable silence.

Laura doesn’t know how much time passes as they sit there. She must have fallen asleep for a moment because she remembers putting her cup down to let it cool, and now the liquid is disgustingly cold. Mercer is still sitting beside her, empty cup on the table as well. He’s going through a case file with a serious expression just as Laura looks up to where Erica was supposed to be standing and finds that she’s missing. She’s about to ask Mercer when another detective comes in.

“The Chief wants you in Room 4.” She says before turning around and leaving. Laura stretches her back out and can hear the bones pop. Mercer stands besides her, tucking the case file under his arm.

“Those prints better match,” He says under his breath, but Laura can hear him anyway. She stands up and pats his shoulder reassuringly. He looks at her like he’s ready to complain but just smiles tiredly instead. They both nod at each other before making their way back to the interrogation room.

The Chief has Erica with her. They're both looking over a folder that Laura knows has the results of the fingerprint analysis. Neither of them look particularly upset so she has a good feeling that the prints match before they can turn around and tell her.

“Go share the good news with our boy,” Erica says with a sly grin and hands Mercer the folder. He opens it and quickly glances over the contents.

“Oh, he’s gonna love this.” Mercer grins like he’s won the lottery.

He walks back into the interrogation room with the folder in tow. Johnson looks up from where he’s handcuffed and looks positively murderous. Pun intended. An older man is seated beside him, ready to start talking. Mercer wastes no time though, pulling a page from his folder and slamming it on the table in front of Johnson. He lets the silence settle over them for just a while longer, let's Johnson understand exactly what they’ve got against him. His lawyer looks about ready to puke.

“Let’s cut to the chase. The prints that we found on both guns match your prints.” Mercer says.

“Let’s cut a deal.” The lawyer bargains desperately, running a hand through his graying hair. Mercer pauses and considers him. Laura isn’t willing to strike a deal for Johnson though; she hopes Mercer understands that much.

“No deal,” Mercer says evenly, expression stoic. “Your client has killed three people, one a minor that he stalked beforehand.”

“Are you going to pursue capital punishment?”

Laura taps the glass to get Mercer’s attention. All three heads snap up. Mercer looks between the attorney and the glass before shrugging and exiting the room. The attorney looks like he wants to follow, but Johnson starts whispering something that no one else can hear. Laura continues to stare at them, wishing she knew how to read lips. That was definitely something she needed to practice.

“So?” Mercer says, keeping his eye on the glass and the two men behind it.

“Death penalty.” Erica sneers.

“No. You know I don’t like that. Life without parole,” Laura says. She never did like the idea of ‘an eye for an eye.

Mercer sighs and pinches the brim of his nose. The previous bravado seems to fall off of him in waves, leaving behind the tired man. He rolls his shoulders. “Alright. That’s what I’ll tell them.”

He heads back into the room to share the news. Johnson’s attorney doesn’t look happy about the news, but he at least looks relieved that the death penalty is off the table. It makes Laura happy to know that Johnson will rot away in jail instead of getting off easy. She wants him to live with what he’s done, regardless of if he ever regrets it.

▲

Laura slumps against a wall and lets her hair down. It feels good to run her hands through it. She pulls her phone out to see it’s seven thirty two and she knows she’ll finally have time to go home and shower and get a decent night’s sleep.

Erica comes out of the station and stops beside her to squeeze her arm gently. Laura pockets her phone and pats Erica’s fingers in recognition, watching with a small smile. The blonde takes off towards a waiting car and when Laura squints she can see Boyd in the driver’s seat. Both Erica and Boyd are family friends now due to both of them working for Hale & Co, Erica, Laura’s assistant and Boyd, one of the company’s chauffeurs. Laura wasn’t surprised when they got together.

Mercer sighs loudly as he exits the building. He quickly pulls a cigarette out, fingers fumbling with the package as he tries to put it back into his pocket. Laura snorts as Erica and Boyd pull away from the curb and disappear on the road.

“Finally got him.” She smiles and offers her palm.

“Good work.” Mercer high fives her. “Going home?”

“Waiting to. You know how cabs are.”

Mercer smirks and digs in his pocket for his keys, which he dangles in front of Laura. She would hug him if she wasn’t so damned tired. She didn’t get to bring her own car and the cab service had her on hold for 10 minutes. Then they told her it’d be a 10 minute wait.

“I can drive you, I guess.” Mercer says as he crushes his cigarette against the wall and tosses it. He starts heading down the stairs and Laura follows closely behind him.

It isn’t the first time he'd driven her home so she doesn’t need to give him directions. She buckles herself in and the drive lulls her to sleep. Perhaps it was for the best that she didn’t bring her car; she probably would have fallen asleep at the wheel and crashed. Laura doesn’t even know how Mercer can stay awake so long and still function perfectly.

He shakes her awake when they finally get to her apartment. “We’re here.”

“Of course I fell asleep.” Laura shakes her head briefly to wake herself up a little.

“You look like you could sleep for a few years.”

 “I’ll take that as a compliment. I don’t know how, but I am.” Laura smiles as she gets out of the car. She thanks him and is about to go into her building when Mercer calls out to her.

“After this is done, me and you, drinks?” He’s got his head sticking out of the window and Laura can’t help but laugh.

“If that’s your way of asking me out, it’s terrible,” she says.

“I’m tired.”

“So I should give you a pass, huh?” Laura folds her arms over her chest and pretends to contemplate the offer. “Okay.”

“Thanks. Now get to your apartment and get some sleep.” Mercer salutes her before rolling up his window. He idles outside until she’s safely in the building.

It’s almost nine when Laura opens the door to her apartment and she should just drop in her bed and sleep, but the need to shower wins her over. She heads into the bathroom and runs the water; it always takes its time to warm up properly. She moves back to her bedroom as she waits to grab a change of clothes and a clean towel when a noise startles her. She quickly makes her way to the nightstand by her bed where she has a taser and a handgun hidden, opening the draw slowly and grabbing both.

The apartment is too quiet while she waits. The sound of the shower is barely audible from her bedroom. Her palms are sweaty, making it hard for her to get a good grip on the gun. She fumbles with it for a moment before steadying herself. Just when she’s ready to believe it was nothing, another sound comes from the hallway. Footsteps follow and she holds her breath as someone opens the door. It’s dark in the hallway so she can’t see his face.

“Identify yourself.” Laura says with the gun pointed up. She’s never had to do this, not in her own home. It makes her feel sick.

“Now, now, Laura,” The man says as he comes into the dim light of her bedroom. There’s only a lamp on but she can make out his face. She lowers the gun.

“How did you get in here?” She asks as her shoulders slump.

“Let’s just say I’ve picked up some interesting hobbies,” He says and raises a gun of his own. Laura doesn’t have enough time to react before the air is suddenly too thick and loud. The gun in her hand falls to the floor. She recognises the pain in her gut before she even hears anything, or at least that’s how it feels. She looks down at the wound before pressing her hands on it, fingers trembling with the dark blood that mars them. When she looks up, the man is gone.

“Fuck.” Laura can barely hear herself. She looks over to her nightstand to grab her phone, but the handset is missing from the base. She curses again. Laura was never good at putting the things back when she was done with them. She remembers talking to Derek that morning, wishing him a Happy Birthday and apologizing that she couldn’t be there for him. That means the phone is still in the kitchen. Knowing she doesn’t have much time, she walks out of her bedroom as fast as she can.

She almost falls and catches herself on the island. The phone isn’t where she thought she left it, and she doesn’t have time to look for it. Her bag is by the door, so she makes her way over to it. From the hallway she can see that it isn’t there.

“Did he take the fucking phones?” She mutters helplessly, wincing at the pain.

Laura doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do now. Her body is tired and she’s still half asleep from the car. The shower is still running, and she should turn it off. She should knock on someone’s door so they can call an ambulance. She should do anything but fall against the wall and slump to the ground. She shouldn’t close her eyes.

But that’s what she does.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek has had to bury plenty of things, but nothing could have prepared him for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brotection updates every Monday! :)

They depart from the hotel thirty minutes early, pulling into the car park just before eight o’ clock. 

Derek leaves Cora in the passenger seat and goes to meet the vicar. He finds him where they arranged, on the steps just outside the mixed stone church. Together, they take a slow walk around the surrounding undulating land, making sure everything is ready for the service.

At eight fifteen the Vicar excuses himself, promising to see Derek at the service. Derek watches him go and stands quietly for a minute before going back for Cora, slowly treading the narrow, cobbled path that cuts through the green.

Once he reaches the car park Derek steps down off the curb and pauses. He can see Cora through the windshield, wiping her eyes hard enough to make them red and raw. Derek takes a deep breath, blinking harshly, and reeling slightly from a sudden tightness in his chest. He forces himself forward and knocks lightly on the passenger window. She looks up and gives him a weak smile before pulling her coat from the back seat and stepping out of the car.  
Derek pushes the door shut and locks it as quietly as possible, not wanting to disrupt the heavy quiet surrounding the church. 

He offers Cora his arm and she takes it immediately, placing the entirety of her weight on him. Derek watches as she wobbles slightly, feeling that tightness swell in his chest again.

"We're going to be okay," He says softly, even though the words are dry on his lips, as if trying to convince himself. 

She looks up at him abruptly, eyes filled with a misplaced rage that momentarily takes him aback.

"We shouldn't have to be okay," she snaps, her voice as unbalanced as her body, then she slumps as if realizing her words, realizing they were both struggling through this together, her eyes softened considerably. 

"I'm sorry..." she whispers, squeezing his arm, her face contorting in a mixture of grief and guilt. 

"It's fine," Derek whispers back, still feeling numb, as if all of this were a self-induced nightmare. He bends slightly at the waist and places a quick, comforting kiss to the top of her head. 

"Lets go... we don't want to miss out on anything," Cora says quietly.

Derek silently agrees before leading her across the car park and along the narrow, gravel path. 

Pristine white fold away chairs sit in perfect lines of four by ten, split down the middle, enough for forty people. They traverse the walkway, finding a spot in the front that was partitioned away for family. 

Derek straightens, rolling his shoulders with a sigh. Looking around, he wonders for a brief moment if many people will even turn up, but as he and Cora wait, a congregation of sullen-faced guests filter through the aisle. The excess end up standing behind the last row for the duration of the service. 

After greeting each person as well as he can, Derek finds his seat in the front row next to Cora who immediately wraps her fingers around his forearm tightly, sniffing quietly when the vicar begins the service.

The afternoon slinks by, the service following in it’s wake. At one point Derek thinks that it’s about to start raining but gets distracted by Cora resting her head on his shoulder. 

He can’t find the strength to complain or be annoyed as her tears leave permanent marks on the expensive, black fabric and is even less concerned when several of his own make their own blemishes. 

A few minutes or hours later, Derek can’t tell, the vicar gathers them around the rectangular hole as the casket is lowered into the earth. Cora muffles a sob with her hand when the smooth, wooden box reaches the bottom, and Derek wraps an arm around her. 

Something strange envelopes him as the vicar continues his readings, throwing in ashes and dirt accordingly, followed by flowers from various people. He doesn’t quite feel… there. It was almost as if his eyes were pushed up to a snow globe, watching the scene unfold from the outside-in. He, more than anything, wants to get away from the intensely desolate atmosphere, to return to his loft in Manhattan and throw colors at a canvas until his fingers were aching and the smell of oils and paint seeped into his skin. He doesn’t want to be reminded that this is it, that Laura is gone and there isn’t anything he can do to get her back. 

Derek feels completely and utterly helpless as he watches the vicar finish his reading and the guests begin to drain away. He shares a single nod with Boyd who returns it before gently leading a shivering Erica away. 

Derek wants to leave, but Cora wants to stay, and so Derek stays. 

They’re only there for another half hour before Cora is whispering that she can’t stand it any more. She grabs the car keys, vehemently blames it on the fact that she can’t stand the freezing cold any longer and hurries to the warm heat of his Camaro in the lot. Derek wants to follow her but his feet remain perfectly planted to the soil, dark eyes held by his sister’s hollow grave. He looks down at the stained and varnished mahogany box, the… strange, suffocating feeling persisting, demanding attention Derek doesn’t want to give. 

He clears his throat, once, twice before actually managing to force any words out. 

“...So, Mom and Dad missed this… you, they couldn’t get a flight. You ruined their vacation, by the way. You’d have laughed. I… I’ll visit when I can… I might even bring you one of my paintings…” Derek sighs at himself. 

Laura wouldn’t have laughed at their parent’s hysteria, no… she’d have laughed at him, standing here trying to talk to her like they do in the films. 

It is quiet for a long moment. 

“I’ll miss you.” He whispers before turning away, feeling detached and emotionally vacant as he walks back to the car. 

▲ 

It isn’t until later after he’s had time to think and rest, Derek realizes why he felt so off.

Everything was the same, but it all felt different. It was like someone had nudged his world just slightly and now he was crooked on his axis, off-kilter, unbalanced, making him see the world in a different way. It was a foreign feeling, it made him uncomfortable, edgy even. 

Cora seems to notice and tries to talk, but neither of them are in the right frame of mind, so two gas stations later they are coming upon their destination, having endured hours of silence prior. 

They slowly made their way deeper into the narrow one way streets that plague the city. Derek glances at Cora slumped against the window, cheek pressed to the glass, deep in sleep. He isn’t surprised, she’s exhausted…they both are. 

Derek is somewhat envious of the simple gesture. He wishes he could just close his eyes and let it all go—the sight of Laura’s body in a casket, the overwhelming amount of tears shed in the last few weeks, the heart wrenching, guttural cry of parents who had just lost their child. But he has always dealt with insomnia, even on his good days. 

It takes several circles of the inner city, but they finally park next to the curb outside the loft they share with Erica and Boyd for the time being. Pulling the keys from the ignition, Derek drops his hands into his lap and lets his head fall back against the headrest as he listens to the car cool. 

Reaching for the door handle he quietly exhales, realizing that he would have to climb three sets of stairs carrying luggage and apparently Cora as well. 

A half hearted noise escapes from the back of his throat, and Derek pushes his door open. He climbs out, not bothering to shut the door quietly. One half of him knowing that she was too deeply sleep for the sound to wake her and the other vindictive and slightly bitter half, hoping she would wake up at the sound because he’s just exhausted. 

With more grace than he feels, Derek manages to get Cora out of the car without waking her and kicks the door shut, pausing to press the remote lock on his car keys. Shifting her gently, he steps up the curb and crosses the path in front of a guy about half a head shorter, wearing bright blue plaid and talking animatedly on his phone. In fact he is so animated that it immediately rubs Derek the wrong way. 

Grinding his teeth Derek manhandles his door open, listening to the enthusiastic voice fade. And with a quick glance over his shoulder before moving into the building, Derek sees the guy walking away, waving his arms around as he spoke. 

Kicking the door shut behind him and listening for the click of the automatic lock, Derek contemplates the stairs in front of him and decides that he’ll bring their bags up tomorrow morning.

▲ 

The next few days are strange. They’re both feeling subdued to such an extent that they start living like animals, hardly talking and only moving when they’re hungry, thirsty or need to use the bathroom. 

They both seem oblivious to that fact that they have to go back to work soon, that yes, life continues to exist outside of their tragedy and will always continue moving, whether one is ready or not. It’s a Godsend that their Uncle Peter had offered to look after the family law firm while they got themselves together and prepared a proper press release on how they’d deal with the unfortunate loss. 

Their friends visit often during that first week, bringing food and DVDs. Boyd brings home a few canvases and an array of different oils and brush sets for Derek to eventually mess around with when the spark to paint returns to him.

There isn’t much conversation for a little over eight days until Isaac speaks up one evening.

All eyes turn to where he’s settled in the armchair. 

“I told my boss that you guys needed me...for the funeral.” Isaac says quietly, his eyes trained on the coffee table. “But he said that I needed his money more and I… I couldn’t argue with him.” Isaac raises his head then, looking between the Hales, eyes glassy. 

Derek looks down at his lukewarm mug of coffee, unsure of what to say at first. Thankfully Isaac continues without being prompted. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, watery gaze fixed on Derek. Derek nods, not trusting his voice, not when his chest feels so tight. Isaac looks so remorseful, as if he had been the one to take Laura all too soon. 

With fresh tears on her cheeks, Cora pushes the blankets off herself, rises from the corner of the three piece she was huddled in and crosses the room. Derek’s blinks, watching as she sits on Isaac’s lap, curling around him, her tears marring the once clean cotton of his t-shirt. Isaac wraps his arms around her and rests his chin on the crown of her head. 

Ignoring the helpless looks on Erica and Boyd’s faces from where they are seated on the two piece at the other end of the coffee table, Derek has to look away from the small tear that escapes and rolls down Isaac’s cheek. 

▲ 

Derek would have stayed on the couch with his loved ones for much longer than the week and a half if he had the jurisdiction. But eventually they all have to return to the lives that exist outside of the foggy cloud of loss and the limbo that came with it. 

Isaac returns to his job at the local ice rink with his insensitive dick of a boss. Boyd goes back to fumigating the planet at the local chauffeur branch, and Erica goes back to Hale & Co. More determined than ever to see people put away and hopefully avenge the loss of one of her closest friends. 

Derek however is technically jobless, so instead he takes to his canvas.

It takes a couple more days, a few more evenings spent reflecting and talking about Laura’s life, but everyone eventually settles back into an everyday routine. It’s nowhere near what it used to be, and will probably never even come close, but it’s enough to trudge through the thickets of grief until it too, eventually passes. 

That is, until Derek nearly joins Laura...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So they actually had a case. A real case. For the first time since… well, since ever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silly me clicked "save without posting" yesterday because I was so tired...

“Dude, go RIGHT!” Stiles screams, voice drenched in panic as the car jerks unexpectedly onto a back road. The sound of sirens blare in the background, law enforcement heavy on their tracks. He narrowly misses a pedestrian, who, in turn, rolls behind a tree for cover. Asshole. Who even uses sidewalks nowadays?

“I’m trying, alright? See if you can do better.” Scott immediately quips, mashing the buttons repeatedly on the controller as he intently watches the television screen. 

Instantly Stiles grabs the remote, retaking control of the game, much to Scott’s obvious dismay. Little did he know Stiles was no longer a prisoner of his puppy dog look, something that had been expertly perfected over the years. 

“Playing Grand Theft Auto requires a certain amount of finesse you just don’t have, my friend.” He replies while triumphantly maneuvering through a thicket of cars. 

He can sense Scott rolling his eyes in the background. “It’s really nice to know you’re awesome at playing a video game, dude. That’s a life achievement you should be so completely proud of.”

“Judge me.” Stiles quips back, tongue pushing against the corner of his mouth. Because, yes, this was totally his life and had been his life, and there wasn’t that many people who could say they had played and beat every single game in the Grand Theft Auto franchise in a little under three days. 

“You need to get laid, dude.”

Scrunching his eyebrows together, he almost rams into the back of another car. “Hey, asshole? Don’t lecture me on my sex life. It’s not like I bitch to you about how swapping spit with Allison 24/7 is not an acceptable way to spend your time.” 

“And playing video games is?” 

Stiles pauses the game, fully turning to look at his best friend. “Absolutely. Stop being fucking ridiculous.” 

“It’s like after you stopped obsessing over Lydia, you’ve committed to living the life of a nun.”

Stiles mouth pops open, and then closes. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to subject himself to somehow coming up with a witty response for that because his cell phone begins to buzz on the coffee table. 

Immediately reaching for it before Scott can so much as get a word in, he hastily presses the accept button. “You have reached Stilinski & McCall Security. How may I help you?”

“My brother and I would like to meet with you.” The voice replies, seemingly female. She sounds tired, as if going through the ins and outs was some grand struggle. 

Stiles eyebrows shoot up, sending Scott a look as he crawls closer in order to hear. “May I ask whom I’m speaking to?” Even after doing it for months, he hated the whole professional, ‘I’m obviously reading from a crappy script’ spiel. Lydia had insisted on it to maintain the company’s ‘integrity’ and in all honesty Stiles had been too terrified of her to decline. 

“Cora Hale.” 

Pausing for a moment, he presses the phone to his chest, if only because Scott looks like he’s about to explode with anticipation. 

...Yeah, they didn’t get called often for their services. 

“A client wants to meet tomorrow.” Stiles explains, before clearing his throat and pressing the phone back to his ear. “Uh, give me one moment. I just need to check our appointment book.” 

Their nonexistent appointment book. 

Nonetheless, he quickly grabs the comic book from the end table, flipping through it rapidly for about ten good seconds before responding, “Is two o'clock good?” 

“It’s fine. Where can we meet?”

Stiles mouths the words to Scott, who scrambles to grab a piece of paper, writing a restaurant name down in scratchy ink. Stiles fumbles for it, reading the name off instantaneously, “The… Zen.” He shoots Scott a questioning look at the sketchy title. 

“Asian Bistro on 2nd Street?” 

“Uh, yeah—yup. That’s the one.” Stiles is completely pulling this out of his ass, but he assumes the woman is right. If not, then they’ll hear from Lydia on their lack of professionalism at a later date. 

“See you then.” 

Blinking once, then twice, he closes the Nokia, team flip phone for the win, before clearing his throat. So they actually had a case. A real case. For the first time since… well, since ever. 

“Was that a—” 

“An actually client, yes. Yes it was.” 

Instantly, Scott was propelling his body towards Stiles and ouch. “Dude, that’s awesome! I mean I knew it would happen someday!” Besides from the fact that he can feel his source of oxygen rapidly depleting, it is a joyous moment indeed. 

Until he becomes acutely aware of the fact that Scott’s crotch is literally pressed up against his, and holy mother of God it feels way better than it should have. Way better than a best friend’s crotch should feel. And Stiles can practically hear the shallowness of his breathing in his ears. 

“Uh, Scott?”

The guy seems like he’s in the midst of an excitement-induced high, lips spreading into a grin as he remained stupidly unaware of the fact that their junk is only a few layers of clothing away from full contact. Stiles’ eyelids flutter close, and he wills his anatomy not to react in a way that will only make this situation incredibly awkward. 

Because this is the dude he had rolled around in Huggies with. 

Just no.

This actually can’t be happening. He licks his lips and wonders why he couldn’t be as blissfully unaware about this as Scott was. 

Oh, oh right. Scott is straight, and he… isn’t.

“Dude! Do you understand how long we’ve been waiting for a moment like this?” 

“Yes, Scott, but—” 

And then he’s moving a little, moving a little on his crotch and at that very moment Stiles is absolutely positive the ceiling had opened up and he is looking straight into the shimmering skies of heaven, because this feels incredible. Or incredible for a guy who has gone nearly a year without sexual attention that spans outside of the solace of his hand. 

He should push Scott off, should’ve come up with some excuse to dart off to the bathroom as soon as it started getting weird. But he doesn’t. And well, he now has to live with his choices. 

And the fact that he’s definitely hard. And Scott is definitely widening his eyes at him in that ‘Did you just…? Are you…?’ and Stiles definitely, definitely wants the ground to engulf him. 

▲ 

Turns out ‘The Zen’ actually is an Asian Bistro on 2nd Street. It's one of those chic restaurants with smooth, mint-colored lounge chairs, a sushi buffet and complimentary chopsticks Stiles couldn’t stop trying to use. 

“You do realize there’s forks, right?” Scott says, raising his packet as proof.

Stiles rolls his eyes whilst trying to pick up his napkin with the two wooden sticks. “See, people like you are diluting America! How are you ever going to learn if you don’t try? The forks are only training wheels, my friend, hop on the big boy bike.” 

Scott snorts, but reaches for his own pair of chopsticks before the air shifts and they are both simultaneously looking up at a dark-haired girl that seems to have spontaneously appeared in front of their table right then and there. 

“Are you the guys?” she asks dryly, as if there were numerous other places on this planet that she’d rather be than here. Sad thing is, Stiles can’t even be offended.

“Depends on who you’re looking for.” Stiles replies, using his best James Bond voice as he drops his chopsticks to the table top. 

“I spoke with someone on the phone last night about my brother.” 

“Then that’s us!” Scott chirps and Stiles delivers a firm kick to his shin from underneath the table because that was not apart of the codebook Lydia had written them. Over enthusiasm is the easiest way to shoot yourself in the foot. 

She doesn’t even attempt to hide the incredulousness that flashes across her features. “My brother’s outside trying to find a parking space for our ridiculous rental car car. He’ll be in shortly.”

“If you don’t mind me asking.” Scott tries again, his voice considerably more even. “Why did you want to schedule a meeting?” 

Cora grabs a chair, dropping down onto it without a single care in the world. Stiles almost wishes he could be that smooth. 

“Where to start? Oh. My sister was murdered a little over three weeks ago in her apartment and then my brother nearly joined her because someone messed with the brakes on his car.”

Hale… Hale! The story had been all over the news for the past couple of weeks, reports from the Coroners office writing off the murder as foul play with a lethal shot to the lower abdomen. They had found her corpse hours after having bled out, but the murderer was still apparently on the loose. 

Geez, they had bad luck. 

“Sorry for your loss.” Scott replies, and Cora is almost instantly raising a hand to silence him. 

“It’s not your fault.” She’s then glancing over her shoulder, the duo’s eyes following her line of sight, landing on the man that was now traversing the bistro. Stiles lips noticeably popped open at the sight, chopsticks all but forgotten. 

… Well this is unexpected. Completely unexpected. When Stiles thought of witness protection he—well he had no idea what he expected. Someone who was scrawnier? Smaller? Clearly unable to defend themselves? Yeah, definitely not a tall, broad, seriously intimidating man with enough muscles to bench press Stiles without even warming up. Gorgeous was also not something Stiles had thought about before hand either. 

“And there he is.” Cora mumbles, and seriously Stiles needs classes on how to be as nonchalant and ‘I don’t give a fuck about anything or anyone’ taught specifically by her. Instead he manages to make at least more than a dozen twitchy body movements including, but definitely not limited to raking a hand through his hair, looking out at the adjacent street and trying to pronounce the elaborate dishes on the menu. Which reminds him—he forgot to bring his Adderall with him to take once they’d finished lunch. 

“He needs witness protection? He looks like the type of guy that can kill a bear with his bare hands.” Stiles blurts. 

So maybe he shouldn’t speak. Ever. Because Cora and Derek are shooting him almost identical bitch faces, and he sort of wants to slump down into his booth and die. This whole lack of filter thing obviously isn’t in any way an endearing trait. Although Derek’s bitch face seems to fall away from Stiles and laser in on Cora. “Who are these idiots? I thought we were just having lunch.” 

“We are, but we’re also putting you in a witness protection program. You know, someplace where you’re life won’t actually be threatened.” 

Stiles raises an eyebrow, because seriously? Who was this guy? He had already come to the conclusion that snark and sass would be a prevalent theme between the little family duo. 

“I don’t need someone to protect me, Cora. It was just a—” 

“Coincidence?” she interrupts, expression contorting into disbelief. 

“In what galaxy is it coincidence to have your brakes backfire all of a sudden? Someone wants to off you, buddy. And it’s our job to help.” Stiles pipes up immediately wanting to take back the cheesy infomercial ending. 

Derek looks like he wants to disembowel him and smear the remains all over a wall somewhere and Stiles probably looks a little - forget that - a lot intimidated. 

“He’s right.” Cora replies, eyes blazing with an unadulterated sternness. “We just need to hide you somewhere until this all blows over.” 

“Cora.” he near-growls, and Stiles seriously thinks he’ll wolf out or something. “What about you?” 

“I’ll be back in school in a few weeks and also out of the city. Nothing’ll happen to me there.” 

“Helpful, which school?” Stiles asks.

Scott nudges him and gives him the ‘It’s never acceptable to insert meaningless commentary into conversations that don’t currently concern him, especially when it happened to be in the midst of a brother-sister feud’ look. If there’s even a look for that, somehow Scott has a look for every occasions. Right. 

“So while you’re in school, free, I’ll be forced to deal with these two morons?” 

“A totally unfair assumption of people you don’t know.” Stiles replies, and god help him he’s sending the same, murderous stare again. 

“Christ, it’ll only be a few weeks, Derek! Since the police hardly ever do what they’re paid to do and refuse to protect you, we’ll have to wait until they eventually find out who this guy is and arrests them.” It’s pretty obvious that Cora is beyond exasperated with her brother at this point, but the guy comes off as a total hard ass so it was probably his fault and not just the way she is. 

Derek rolls his eyes and Stiles seriously almost feels a little sorry for the guy. But it’s immediately drowned out by the fact that he just insulted his intelligence two times in the capacity of less than a minute and a half. 

“Fine.,” He says, and there’s something kinda hilarious about the Hulk’s little brother crossing his arms petulantly and doing this broody thing with his eyes where you feel the incessant urge to give him a lollipop or something. It was also sexy too, and Stiles is a horrible and apparently perpetually horny person. 

“Good. Then how do we officially sign up for your services?” 

“We just need to consult with our boss and after that we’ll get back to you in no more than twenty four hours to get everything set up.” Scott explains. 

Eventually they ended up parting ways after egg rolls and orange chicken and Scott literally bursts with excitement again once they’re crossing Soho. Stiles can’t help but grin a little too, because this was actually totally, completely awesome.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles finds it perfectly acceptable to glower like a petulant child for the duration of the meeting, in which they cover housing arrangements and other ‘I-want-to-stab-myself-in-the-eye-this-is-so-boring’ details.

“How did you two manage to get the Hale case?” Jackson questions with a snort in that snooty, ‘better than thou’ attitude that actually manages to grate on Stiles’ nerves. Thankfully, before he has to attempt to rack his brain for a witty response, Lydia is reprimanding her boyfriend with a swift whack to the back of the head as she enters into the room. They had all rented out an apartment in Inskip, which in truth, was only a glorified office space. 

“Does it matter? All we have to worry about is keeping Derek and his sister safe until authorities find the killer.” Lydia quips dryly. 

“Authorities?” Stiles immediately straightens up from his spot on the couch, eyes widening in disbelief. “Awesome. Because they’ve done an overwhelmingly fantastic job in the last few weeks.” Apparently sarcasm is his native tongue. 

Lydia rolls her eyes while rifling through a manilla envelope. “Finding perps isn’t part of our job description.” 

“And what if the killer isn’t found, then what?” He mimics a cell phone with his fingers before pressing it to his ear. “Oh, hi, Cora and Derek, yes! Sorry we’ve done fuck all in fixing this other than uprooting your lives and hiding you away in captivity for months, only for you to be completely screwed when you step into daylight again.” 

Her lips purse. “We’re not qualified to be crime stoppers, Stiles. I’d appreciate it if you buzzed back down to reality.”

Stiles finds it perfectly acceptable to glower like a petulant child for the duration of the meeting, in which they cover housing arrangements and other ‘I-want-to-stab-myself-in-the-eye-this-is-so-boring’ details. Seriously, why did they even schedule these things? They only comprise of Lydia mostly going over the same procedures that had been pounded into all of their heads since the company started years ago. By the time the meeting concludes Stiles has either fallen asleep or entered another mental galaxy entirely, because everyone was packing up their things and either drifting into other rooms or leaving. 

A warm hand falls on his shoulder and on instinct, Stiles jumps at the contact. Eyes flickering upwards, he instantly recognizes warm, darker ones, a tired smile stretching across his lips. Danny. Danny’s cool, he doesn’t mind Danny. Well, no one really minds Danny. 

“That boring, huh?” 

“My Econ classes at least kept me awake.” Stiles grumbles with a passive wipe of his eye. He’s more of an ‘in the moment’ slash action-y guy; needless to say, the paperwork behind everything was a pain in the ass. 

“Well I agree with you, with the whole police thing.” 

Stiles eyebrows shoot upwards in surprise. “Wha—Yeah? Really?” 

“Yeah.” Danny extends a hand and Stiles nearly misses the invitation to grab it. “It’s about time we take matters into our own hands.”

So Danny is officially his new favorite person. 

“I’d have better luck dividing the Atlantic sea than getting Lydia on my side.” Stiles moans while slinging his backpack over his shoulder. Where the hell is Scott, anyways? Probably making out with Allison somewhere. 

Jerk. 

The jerk who is also getting laid right now while Stiles remains agonizingly un-fucked. It’s a damn tragedy. 

“Maybe Lydia doesn’t have to be on our side.” he replies, and holy son of god, Danny Mahealani is suggesting they go behind her back. Together. Together, them, going behind her back and scheming and doing whatever the hell they wanted. 

Stiles pauses, and for a moment he just blinks at him to make sure he isn’t missing out on the big punchline. When he is pretty assured that Danny, in fact, wants to play detective, a breathy laugh escapes his throat. “You want to go behind Lydia’s back? With me?” 

“I didn’t stutter.” Danny replies as if consenting to this is the most leisurely thing in the world. Obviously he doesn’t understand that when Stiles gets invested in something, he tends to drag the people involved into a dark vortex of sleepless nights, borderline insanity, and potentially dangerous situations. 

He lets out a scoff, clapping Danny on the chest. “Let’s do it then.” 

Suddenly, Stiles is attacked by a genuine, dimple-y grin and Danny nodding in approval. “Can we do this at dinner tomorrow? Eight o’clock?” 

His lips pop open, but he’s agreeing nonetheless. “Dinner? Dinner’s awesome, actually. Food really gets the brain going, y’know? Where though? And if you say your house, I’m gonna berate you on not buying me flowers first.” 

Danny laughs, drifting towards the door. “Actually, I was going to suggest my place. But if you’re not comfortable with that...” 

Stiles waves his hand with another snort. “Why would I be uncomfortable? I kid, I kid. I know you and Ethan sorta have a thing now.” It was pretty obvious; they were always coming up with surprisingly plausible reasons to run off together, and considering everyone was reasonably qualified in cracking puzzles, he severely doubted he was the only one that knew of this supposedly secret relationship. 

He never even knew Danny was capable of genuinely blushing until the red starts creeping all the way up to his ears. It’s kinda cute, in an adorable, two awkward kids trying to express their feelings for each other, way. It also makes Stiles hate his love life, or lack thereof. 

“It’s not really a thing. We’re just talking.”

“He nearly took off his own brother’s head the other day for making fun of you. Just be like, ‘Hey, I know you like me and I like you too, let’s go out and maybe engage in fun sexual activities that same night,’”Stiles drawls, and Danny is beginning to resemble a tomato more and more as the seconds pass. “Again, joking, sorta. Not really. If I were you, I’d drag him into a room somewhere and never leave.” Ethan was hot, which yeah, Stiles knew by default made Aiden hot too, but no one really liked him and so he refused to acknowledge it.

“How did we go from taking matters into our own hands to talking about my love life?” He manages through the sudden bashfulness. 

“I have ADHD, you know this.”

Shaking his head, he steps out onto the landing, parking lot on the bottom floor. “Night, Stiles. See you tomorrow.” 

“Sellout!” 

▲ 

It’s just after six in the evening when Stiles calls their clients, well within the twenty four hour time window. It’s been eighteen and a half hours since their twelve thirty lunch.

“Okay, good news, your case has been approved,” Stiles greets, legs kicked up on his desk as he idly chews on the cap of a pencil in between gaps of conversation. 

“So what do we do next? I return to UC in less than a week.” 

“Your brother will be staying in various secluded accommodations. Cut off from most of society, safe, heavily monitored. All that jazz.”

There’s a brief delay in conversation, before her voice comes through again, labored. “Do you know who will be staying with him yet?”

“Not yet. But he’ll be protected.” 

“Okay.” Her voice is light and tired, and Stiles can’t help but feel completely sorry for the girl. Going back to school after having your older sister murdered and brother in hiding is more than just shitty luck. It’s rough. 

“We’ll figure everything out soon, alright? And I’ll update you every step of the way.” 

Stiles could be hallucinating or exaggerating the immediate softness that overwhelms Cora’s words, but appreciates it nonetheless. “Thank you. When do I have to say goodbye to him?”

“We’ll come by at the end of the week.”

▲ 

“Buzzing in to El Diablo!” Scott’s voice whispers into his ear and Stiles isn’t even ashamed to admit that he encourages the team to call him that. It started in college, a drinking game gone wrong, and why not own it? In a way, it was kinda badass and since Stiles was a kinda badass guy, it was extremely fitting. 

“Message received, Rocky.” ‘Rocky’ is a tribute to Scott’s crooked jaw line. Surprisingly he had proudly accepted the name. “What do you want?” 

Obviously sleep is an unacceptable practice. 

“Lydia wants us to check out Derek’s car with the specialist.”

“Wha? When?”

“In thirty minutes. Can you make it down to the garage?” 

No, no he can’t. Because he is exhausted and has the apartment to himself, and it is so nice to just close his eyes for once. But he’s a bitch, a bitch that can’t say no. And there’s not enough words in the dictionary to even adequately explain how much that sucks. 

“Sure.” Stiles grumbles, and he’s groaning into his pillow. 

▲ 

There’s only so much coherency you can manage at twenty past ten (which, by the way, why were they even doing this so late in the first place?) and Stiles feels like he’s on death row in the chilly evening air of Inskip. With the cold front sweeping in for fall, not even layers upon layers of jackets and hoodies could fend away the freeze. 

The garage is really a shitty, abandoned gas station that the town had forgotten about over the years. It worked out perfectly for undercover operations. 

“Yo Finstock!” Stiles shouts upon pushing open the door to the convenience store, which no longer housed candies or the necessary snacks to make this job any less suck-ish. He checks his phone again, Scott promising that he’d be there in ten minutes. “What’s the update on the car? Any faulty play?” 

Ten minutes his ass. 

Stiles wants emancipation from this best friend agreement because being friends with Scott actually sucks right now. And he wants to hate and blame Allison for it, but she is way too angelic and nice and ‘little-miss-sunshine’ to even harbor any negative thoughts against. 

“The Stilinski kid is here,” he hears Finstock mutter to someone inside. As Stiles has already established, it’s late and the garage closes at nine so who else is here? Scott didn’t tell him that he’d have company. Furrowing his eyebrows, he waits until the door to the makeshift office bangs open, Finstock emerging from its cluttered depths in denim and a grease-stained Nirvana t-shirt. Stiles could have properly appreciated that if his eyes hadn’t already shifted in surprise to the man behind him. 

Derek Hale. 

Derek Hale in a smooth leather jacket and dark jeans that make Stiles seriously hate himself and Derek for being so damn beautiful. His eyes harden instantly, and Jesus, does he have a Peter’s Cross etched into his forehead or something? If the guy got a quarter for all the times he cracked a smile, he would be broke because such a gesture seems physically agonizing for him. The world will implode when Derek shows those pearly whites, Stiles is sure. 

“We were waiting on you to show. Where’s the kid with the asymmetrical jaw line?” 

“Scott?” 

“Yeah, yeah, him. Whatever. I don’t care. Let’s get this inspection over with, alright?”

Both Derek and Stiles simultaneously shrug, and then they’re all stepping through the glass doors and back into the car lot where his Camaro is neatly parked. The paint is fresh and slick, and Stiles will never be able to afford something so nice... ever. Talk about the poor-kid-turned-poor-young-adult blues. 

Finstock doesn’t waste any time grabbing a crawl board and sliding underneath the car, leaving Stiles to twiddle his thumbs and stand next to the 6-foot-something live carving of an angel. A dark, mean angel, but an angel nonetheless. 

“You’re moving into a secluded motel at the end of the week, by the way. Not sure if your sister told you yet.” Stiles says for pure conversation’s sake. He will murder Scott for leaving him with a man that according to what Stiles’ has witnessed speaks no more than a hundred words per day. 

“She told me.” Derek says calmly, and Stiles is staring at him a little longer than necessary because is this guy even real? He’s beginning to realize his emotions are incredibly limited and often shift between annoyance and a chillingly cool stoicness. 

“It won’t be that bad, y’know? Free food, free wifi, a free bed. If you think about it, it’s kinda like a paid vacation.”

“I guess being potentially murdered was in the fine print.” 

Stiles isn’t sure if he’s a horrible person for laughing or not, but in spite of his best efforts, he’s stifling back a snicker with the back of his hand. To his surprise, the corners of Derek’s lips lift for less than an eighth of a second, making him seriously wonder if he hallucinated the puny smile. 

Finstock is then sliding out from underneath the Camaro, giving a low, resonating whistle. “Yeah, someone definitely fucked with your brakes. It’s leaking brake fluid all over the damn place.” 

“Guess someone does have it out for you then.” Stiles says with a sigh. “Alright. Finstock, stick around and help me send a write up to Lydia and you—” he turns boldly towards Derek, angling his pointer finger in his direction. However, Derek’s facial expression is back to being stone cold, eyes narrowing. Stiles instantly falters, dropping his finger lamely. The very last item on his itinerary was getting his ass kicked, thank you very much. 

“Get some sleep? If you want? I mean, yeah. Do it. We’ll come get you in the next few days.” Stiles mourns the tiny lapse in character he was able to drag out of him. 

Derek doesn’t say anything, but the message is received loud and clear. 

▲

“You sack of shit. You ditched me with no explanation just so you could go out with Allison?!” Stiles practically shouts when Scott starts frowning apologetically against the apartment door. If he had the strength and agility to, he would have hauled his ass right back out into the hallway and locked the door. 

“She was sick! She came down with the sniffles last minute and I made her chicken noodle soup and stayed with her.” 

“The sniffles! Right, because a girl who could disembowel someone with her bare hands really couldn’t fend away the common cold by herself for a night. That makes a lot of sense.” Stiles angrily tears open a cereal box before dumping its contents into a bowl. “It’s whatever, Scott. I took care of it. Now go away.” 

“Not until you stop being mad at me.” Scott mumbles, and he’s doing the puppy dog thing again, and that’s like Stiles’ legit kryptonite. He moves over to the fridge, retrieving a carton of milk whilst avidly trying to avoid his gaze. 

“No. Because you couldn’t even send me a text message, and could you stop looking at me like that? Let me be petulant and whiny and upset for once!” Scott has the undeniable power to make Stiles feel like shit when it isn’t even his fault most of the time.

“I’ll do whatever you want until forever.”

“Until forever?” Stiles mumbles with a snort, even though he’s listening. 

“Until you forgive me.” 

“Nah, I like forever.” 

“Fine. Forever. I’ll be your humble servant until the end of time. What can I do for you first, my majesty?”

He rolls his eyes although a tiny laugh escapes. Okay, yeah, so they were actually doing this. Stiles presses a finger to his chin, as if to mull it over. “You can clean the bathroom. Which, by the way, is pretty disgusting.” 

His smile melts away into a repulsed groan and this gives Stiles an odd feeling of happiness. “You’re going to make this a living hell for me, aren’t you?”

He shoves a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. “I haven’t decided yet.”

▲

“So tomorrow’s the day,” Lydia announces upon entering the apartment, pumps clacking against the hardwood. Stiles still has no idea how she can walk around in those potential death traps. “We will be picking up Derek Hale and excavating him from society.” Stiles was pretty positive Lydia was making the prospect seem ten times worse than it actually was. 

“Where are we sending him?” Allison asks while sharpening a blade by the kitchen counter as if it’s the most casual thing ever. She had a knack for looking like Mary Poppins and fighting like Bruce Lee. 

“To a motel just outside of town. We’ll need someone to keep an eye on him constantly though.” She pauses, adding earnestly, “Make sure he’s safe and well.” 

Stiles is just about to nod off when he feels someone nudge his shoulder, and Danny’s giving him an empathetic grin. Were their plans soiled? Does Lydia know of their ulterior motives? Did Danny crumble under pressure and spill the beans? In the misty haze of his near subconscious, he begins to fervently piece together a plausible excuse, only to have his thoughts cut off. 

“Stilinski. You’re on the job.” 

If it’s impossible to drown on air, Stiles made it possible.

Eyes widening, he shook his head. “C’mon, me? No! I’m shit at surveillance. You know how I am. Easily excitable, can get distracted by practically anything—I—this isn’t the right thing for me.” Then gesturing towards Scott, who is standing next to Allison, he points like a madman. “Choose him! He’s better.” 

“You two will both be watching over him—” just as Stiles is about to heave a sigh of relief (because yes, even though Derek is a walking wet dream, he just can’t sit in near solitude for hours without human interaction), she continued, “—in rotations. Stiles, you have the late night through early morning shift, and Scott will have late mornings through early night.”

Lydia is actively trying to ruin his life. She still hasn’t gotten over his unhealthy infatuation with her from the third grade all through high school. 

“We can’t wo—”

“No.” 

“But we’ll—” 

“No.” 

“But—” 

“Stiles!” Lydia rolls her eyes. “This is your job, and you will do everything in your power to do it efficiently.” 

He can feel Danny’s solemn gaze on him, but Stiles doesn’t return it. 

“You are to pick him up at 7 AM tomorrow morning. Understood?” 

Stiles makes a noise in the back of his throat but nods. This was the beginning of a terrible, terrible nightmare.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So first off. No phone calls. No computer, which I’m guessing you didn’t bring. I’d say no Facebook or the like, but you don’t look like a ‘keeping connections through internet magic’ type of guy.”
> 
> Derek knows he’s scowling. “That’s judgemental.” 
> 
> “Well, do you?”
> 
> Derek chooses not to answer on the sole fact that no, he doesn’t. But it’s not because of the reason Stiles thinks. He catches Stiles rolling his eyes though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please accept an extra chapter as an apology for the day-late update.

It's barely 7 a.m. when Derek's phone starts ringing. He chooses to ignore it the first time, but it just. Won't. _Stop_. With an exaggerated sigh, he drags himself out of bed to answer the blasted thing, ready to chew out whoever's calling. Strangely enough, the person beats him to it as soon as he answers. 

"I'm pretty sure we agreed on seven as the pick up time, _and_ I'm also 100% sure that you just woke up. Did you even try to remember? We are only contemplating your continued existence..." The caller says. Derek belatedly recognizes it as Stiles, the guy from that so-called ‘security’ company. 

"I did not — " Derek starts to say before realizing that it probably was Cora that they had gotten such an agreement from. 

"Well either way, I'm outside of your place right now and we need to get a move on. Check in is at nine." And then Stiles just hangs up on him, ending the barely begun argument. 

Derek stares at his phone as if it was the one to personally offend him. He'd love to just throw the damned thing at the wall and be done with it, but that wouldn't solve anything. And Stiles would probably call Cora, who would call Erica, and that's an ordeal he'd rather avoid, regardless of the alternative. 

So with a tired groan, he turns on the shower. 

He only takes about 15 minutes to get out of the apartment, but Stiles is staring at him as if they're both late to something immensely important, like a wedding. Or a funeral. 

It kind of is like a funeral, he thinks. For his already nonexistent social life. 

Derek loads two duffel bags full of clothes and toiletries into the back of the completely unsafe looking Jeep that Stiles apparently drives. Cora had nagged him all night long about what he needed to pack because she didn't think a 26-year-old man was capable of packing his own things. She and Laura are extremely similar when it comes down to things like this, and Derek really wishes it wasn't so painful to notice. 

He'd thought twice about bringing a sketchbook with him, but it's comforting to see the two large books settled beside the duffel bags. He puts another bag next to them, full of various art supplies. Isaac was nice enough to buy him some colored pencils and a box of charcoal to keep him busy during his impromptu vacation. It makes him feel guilty for leaving the canvases that Boyd got him behind, but Derek still feels uneasy painting around other people. It's still difficult for him to paint at all. He pushes away those thoughts as he slides into the passenger seat, unwilling to deal with too many shitty emotions so early in the morning. He hasn't even had a cup of coffee yet. 

God, does he need coffee. 

Stiles keeps shooting him these not so subtle side glances that only strengthen the already awkward silence. Derek doesn't know if he'd rather acknowledge him or not, but Stiles’ persistence chooses for him. 

"What." Derek demands, rolling his shoulders as if that will dislodge the awkward atmosphere between them. 

"Uh," Stiles says as if he hasn't been burning to talk, "I'm guessing that was supposed to be a question, or..."

Derek doesn't even think he needs to dignify that with a response, so he doesn't. 

"Right, well, look, we're gonna be stuck together for a while, and I think that maybe I should learn a little more about the situation."

"Situation?" 

"You know, the entire threat on your life thing," Stiles says, waving a hand randomly in Derek's direction. 

"The threat on my life. Thing." Derek really wants to know what Cora was thinking when she hired this particular fool. 

" _Yes_." Stiles gives an exasperated groan, "I don't want to pry, but it's kind of my job, and I know it's still a raw subject — "

"Out with it already." 

"Did Laura ever talk about her work with you?"  

Derek should have known. "Sometimes. Why?"

"Did she ever say she was worried? Or maybe complained about certain criminals or lawyers?" 

It wasn't unusual for Laura to complain about her job. She was dedicated, and with dedication came self-sacrifice. She'd often whine about missing her friends or having to stay late. She rarely talked about the people she actually prosecuted, not until she put them away. Even then, it wasn't anything worth noting. She complained about _Erica_ more, or the idiotic detective she was working with. 

Which actually might be something after all.  

"There's a detective. Goes by ‘Mercer’, it’s his last name. Laura didn't get along with him." Derek suddenly feels stupid for not knowing anything about Laura's work beyond the fact that she was a prosecutor. He is the only Hale that doesn't have a law degree, not counting Cora, who is currently working towards her own. Hell, the most he knows about law comes from watching television. He doesn't know what pulled him towards art, but his family never asked any questions, and they all support him for the most part. 

"Mercer? Got a first name?" Stiles nods while tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. 

"Don't you think I would have said if I knew?" Derek growls. 

"I don't know what you're comfortable sharing with me, dude. But since we're going down this lane anyway. What about you?" Stiles cranes his neck in Derek's direction before turning back to watch the road. Derek imagines it must be torture for him to have his hands occupied. He's usually waving them around wildly as he speaks. 

"What about me." 

"Again without an actual question, but, I mean, do _you_ have any enemies?" 

_Yes_ , Derek thinks immediately as one person pops up in his head. He says, "No", anyway. 

"The rest of your family?" Stiles presses on. Derek silently mourns the tense silence from the start of their trip.  

"They're accident lawyers. What do you think?"

"Right. Millions of angry people losing money to the injured."

“Your point?” Derek sighs, feeling both too tired and too annoyed to deal with anything, much less Stiles. 

“Are you serious? Obviously I’m trying to make a connection between who killed your sister and who ruined your car.” Stiles says while glaring at the road. Derek wishes they could just get to the hotel and be done with it. 

“Don’t remind me.” Derek grunts, crossing his arms over his chest and trying his hardest to melt into the seat. Stiles continues to glare, which really shouldn’t matter at all to Derek. But it has him continuing anyway. “Anyone that was pissed at Laura would have gone after Erica first. I live across the country.” 

“Okay, I get that. But obviously they knew you’d come out here for the funeral, unless they think you’re some kind of heartless asshole.” 

“Wouldn’t surprise me.” Derek shrugs. 

Stiles shoots him a look. “No bad feelings in the Jeep. She’s sensitive. _Anyway_ , what I was trying to say before you interrupted with your feel-bad party, what if they killed Laura to get to _you_?”

“That’s ridiculous." 

“No, that’s putting clues together. You wanna know what’s ridiculous? Doubting me, and regular stuffed Oreos.”  

Derek huffs out sigh, unwilling to continue on with their current conversation. It is obvious that while he happens to lack in self-esteem and exceed in “bad feelings”, Stiles thrives in false bravado. It is sickening how many people he surrounds himself with that are just like Stiles, but perhaps that means they could be on better footing with time.  

“So…” Stiles starts, voice brimming with nerves. Derek knows he’s asking for trouble when he makes a noise of acknowledgement. “Are you dating anyone?”

“What.” Not in a million years did he think that was going to come out Stiles’ mouth.  

“I just want to know for profiling purposes!” Stiles all but shouts, much too quickly. Derek will take that as a lie, then. He doesn’t really understand why else such information would be relevant, but it won’t kill him to answer.  

He’ll just let Stiles fidget a little in the dramatically stretched silence. It’s oddly gratifying. 

Just when Stiles is about to open his mouth to probably worsen the current situation, Derek spares him with a simple, “No.” Stiles visibly relaxes. 

“Oh. Well, that’s _good_. Yeah. ‘Cause that’d suck, you know. Not being able to talk to her. Or hi — whatever.” Stiles must enjoy embarrassing himself since he decides to keep doing so, Derek observes. “Hey look, there’s the hotel. Right there. Isn’t that great?”  

Derek leans forward just a bit to see the hotel coming up on Stiles’ side. He remembers Cora saying something about a little motel, but he definitely underestimated the kind of place they had chosen. It doesn’t look too shady, and Derek can almost assume that his room will actually be clean. He’d cross his fingers if he wasn’t worried about Stiles seeing it.  

▲

Checking in is relatively painless considering how awkward the ride was. Stiles makes a visible effort not to talk, expending his energy in other ways, like bouncing on his heels anytime they have to stop. Derek knows he could do something to help ease the awkwardness that Stiles singlehandedly put between them, but he gets an almost sick kick out of seeing him squirm.  

After this is all over, he should probably look into therapy. 

The room is nice enough, though the decorations are tasteless and too colorful. There’s two beds spaced into the middle of the room, both with matching comforters. The pattern on them is a mess of grays and blues broken up by sporadic gold stripes. Derek doesn’t know how appropriate it would have been to bring his own blanket and pillow, but he desperately wishes he could go back and get them. 

At the back of the room there is a bathroom, which thankfully has a working door. It’s got tiles on everything except the ceiling, but at least the towels look fresh and there is a set of soaps on top of the sink. There’s even a bottle of bubble bath claiming to be ‘bubble gum scented’. 

Derek brought his own towel and soap simply because Cora had commanded him to. After peeling back the wrapper off of a tiny bar of soap, he’s glad she did. They smell like stale powder. And Derek doesn’t even know if powder can go stale. 

He leaves the bathroom to continue surveying the room, noting the blue, plush carpet that sits beneath the furnishings. After noticing it he realises that it’s a small miracle that the tiles in the bathroom aren’t the same colour. The walls in this room are in fact a bright white, which somehow does work in terms of contrasting colours at least.  

In the corner of the room by the door is a desk that Stiles has set up a laptop on. He’s crawled under it to mess with the wires, muttering to himself about _labeling cables properly_ and _killing Scott_. Derek resolutely does not look at his ass. 

When Stiles is finally done with whatever he was doing under the desk, Derek has already moved on to sorting through his duffel bags and putting a few shirts into the two drawer dresser.

Stiles studies Derek for a moment before leaving the room with his cell phone clutched in his hand. Derek assumes it’s so he can call the rest of his team and update them on their current whereabouts. He doesn’t know much about this kind of security, beyond the fact that he couldn’t actually get any from the police since he wasn’t in ‘enough danger.’ Cora had explained some of the procedure to him, all of which she had drilled someone on Stiles’ team for. What he does know is that he cannot talk to anyone outside of the team, nor can he use his cell phone, laptop, or any social media.  

Outside of the hotel room, he will be referred to by a different name, one which hasn’t been given to him yet. 

He really hopes it’s something simple, like John. Something totally harmless and plain. 

“Okay.” Stiles says stepping back into the room while pocketing his phone. He looks a little less embarrassed, but only because his brow is drawn in an angry line. Derek can’t imagine that call went so well. 

“Scott and the twins were suppose to be here already, but they aren’t, obviously. So I’ll just go over basic protocol with you.”  

Derek nods, encouraging Stiles to continue. 

“So first off. No phone calls. No computer, which I’m guessing you didn’t bring. I’d say no Facebook or the like, but you don’t look like a ‘keeping connections through internet magic’ type of guy.”

Derek knows he’s scowling. “That’s judgemental.” 

“Well, do you?”

Derek chooses not to answer on the sole fact that no, he doesn’t. But it’s not because of the reason Stiles thinks. He catches Stiles rolling his eyes though. 

“Right so, you can’t leave without someone going with you. Buddy system. Always stay in pairs.“ Stiles continues, throwing up two fingers to emphasize his point. Derek feels like he’s being prepared for something much more severe and sci-fi oriented than a few weeks at a hotel. 

“Fine.” He offers anyway, just to keep Stiles from glaring at him and reiterating. 

“Good, I’m happy you understand. Scott will be here soon with the dreaded paperwork so that you can see everything first hand and read it at your leisure.”   

“When do I sign the waiver?” Derek asks, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Stiles apparently misses it.

“Waiver?” He sputters. 

“In case of injury, or untimely death, I cannot sue Stiles and his comrades. Waiver.” 

“Dude, we’re supposed to protect you, why the hell would there be a waiver? That doesn’t make sense.” 

Derek folds his arms over his chest smugly, staring at Stiles with a small smirk. It takes him a moment to realize that Derek is joking, but when he finally gets it, he isn’t happy. He mouths a couple of words while pointing his finger uselessly.  

“Was that _a joke_? I didn’t even know you were capable of that.” Stiles says, finger still waving around in the air helplessly. There’s a small smile playing on his face though so Derek figures his dry brand of humor wasn’t wasted. 

▲

Scott makes his grand arrival an hour later. An hour that was spent in _mostly_ companionable silence. Stiles mostly fiddles with the laptop, calling down to the lobby to get the password for their wifi, which happens to be a separate charge entirely. When the silence goes on for too long, Stiles fills it by asking mostly inane questions like, “Starbucks or Dunkin?” and “Sunny side up or scrambled?”

They’re both unenthused by Scott showing up, much to Scott’s disappointment. He makes some vague apologies at Stiles, along with promising to make the toilet sparkle, whatever that’s about. Derek rather not know. When Scott finally turns to Derek, he sets a professional expression on his face and introduces himself while offering a stiff handshake. Derek takes it just to do something other than notice the daggers Stiles is shooting at his friend’s back.  

“Lydia, our Manager, told me to give these to you. She’d like you to look them over so Stiles can bring them back when he leaves.” Scott says, proffering said documents. Derek accepts them warily, still unsure of the groups actual competence. Signing these papers means no backing out.  

He reads through the stack of pages that explain the contract in depth instead of the way both Cora and Stiles did. It’s a well written contract which shines some hope on the group. At least they understand the mechanics behind having a business, regardless of what they’re selling. When he flips the last page back over to it’s original place, Scott offers him a pen. Derek doesn’t hesitate in taking it, though he does hesitate briefly before actually signing. Half of him wants to turn around and leave, but he listens to the small part that hopes this will work out. If not to just keep Cora from worrying when she should be studying and enjoying her college life.  

He signs.  

Stiles lets out a sigh of relief as if he could hear Derek’s waning thoughts. Scott shoots a curious look between the two of them, which causes Stiles to shrug noncommittally. Derek takes the chance to get in a few questions, turning to page 8 of the contract. It outlines the people that would be in direct contact with Derek showing only their first names and emergency contact numbers.  

“Who are Ethan, Aiden, Allison and Danny?” he asks, flashing the page at Stiles and Scott. 

“Ethan and Aiden will be positioned outside the hotel to watch for suspicious activity. Allison is our weapons specialist. Danny is our tech guy.” Scott explains and Derek is glad for his level of professionalism. Stiles seems to hang back when Scott is around at least, observing from afar.

“Okay, well it looks like Scotty can handle the rest of this,” Stiles says too loudly, moving to grab the contract from Derek’s hand. Derek lets him take it, but not without quirking an eyebrow at him. Scott seems a little confused too. 

“You’re leaving.” Derek says and for once it’s not a badly emphasized question, just a statement.

“Yeah, well, I gotta take these back to Lydia before she gets impatient. She wears torture devices for shoes and I’d love to not deal with that.” Stiles waves his hands dismissively, the clatter of the papers hitting each other in the movement deafening. 

“Dude, what’s the rush? It’s not even noon.” Scott gives him a sadly confused expression, checking his watch twice to make sure. 

“I do have a life Scott. I got things to do before I come back later tonight.”  

“What things?”  

“Things… you know...stuff.” Stiles shrugs in what he must think is a completely casual way. He fails immensely, looking like a caged animal the entire time. 

“Don’t pull a ‘Rick’ on me, there are no zombies around here. What stuff?” Scott says. Between this and the toilet business, it’s safe to say that Scott is pretty exasperated with Stiles.  

“Don’t give me the puppy eyes, Jesus Christ, Scott.” Stiles says with an exaggerated huff and head roll. Scott doesn’t let up though, if anything he tries harder. Derek just watches the pair, who have apparently forgotten him in favour of their tiff. 

Stiles relents. “Okay, damn, if you _must_ know, I have a date.” 

 “A date.” Scott doesn’t sound convinced. “With who?”

“Danny.” And that doesn’t sound like a lie. Derek almost wants to ask how Stiles could possibly convince anyone to date him.  

“You — you’re lying. No way, man.” If Scott’s mouth could get any wider, flies would start bringing in furniture and renting out rooms of their own.  

“Seriously, dude. Ask him when you next see him if you don’t believe me.” 

“Maybe I will.” 

Stiles shoots him a dry look.

“Okay, okay.” Scott deflates. “But Danny? How did you land that?”

“If you were anyone else you’d see that I am a total catch.” And with that, Stiles is turning on his heel and leaving the hotel room, leaving Scott and Derek there in the aftermath of what could only be described as a badly written comedy show. Derek certainly feels as if he was just made audience to something he didn’t want to actually watch.  

Derek doesn’t know who Danny is, but he’s pretty sure he isn’t going to like him.  

▲

Derek doesn't know what's worse, being stuck with Scott or dealing with Stiles. Scott doesn't seem inclined to make conversation, at least not with him. And while Derek has been banned from the phone, Scott uses it _constantly_. It wouldn't be so annoying if not for the actual conversations Derek is forced to overhear. 

He wishes he could leave the room. Scott is sickening as he fusses over some girl and her apparent illness. At one point, they get into a petty argument over what exactly constitutes the title of a 'cold,' the other person on the line insisting that she only has the sniffles. Unfortunately, the argument only leads to further cooing and nausea. Derek might even get a cavity just listening to them. 

After what seems like hours of torture, Scott finally hangs up and looks at Derek sheepishly. Scott stays silent though, as if he expects Derek to stir up conversation. It makes sense; Stiles is likely what Scott is used to, and you couldn't bribe the kid to be quiet. Still, Derek will not allow Scott any luxuries after _that_ phone call, so if he wants to talk, he'll have to initiate it himself. And Derek truly hopes Scott won't. 

But he does. 

"I see you brought a couple of sketchbooks..." Scott starts off, gesturing towards said books where they are propped against the TV stand. 

Derek stares at him briefly before nodding in a way he hopes conveys, " _So_?"

"You're an artist?" Scott smiles a timid smile.

"No, I just collect them for the pictures on the cover." Derek deadpans. Scott's eye widen briefly before he looks back at the sketchbooks, obviously interested in the image of a hand printed on both. Derek resists the urge to snort, but he does roll his eyes.  

Scott doesn't try to strike up conversation again. He turns on the TV and watches it with too much focus. It's obvious that he is trying to ignore Derek at this point. He'd feel bad, but he's used to making people uncomfortable. 

Scott does cave eventually. He shuts off the TV and spins around in his chair to face Derek. He's got this annoyingly stubborn set to his face that makes Derek  dread the coming conversation. 

"Cora told us that you were grumpy, so I get it, but I'm just trying to make this a little more enjoyable for the both of us." 

"Okay." Derek shrugs for lack of anything better to say or do. It's not like he has something against Scott, or even against his disgustingly budding relationship. 

Well, actually he does. Sue him.

"I'm gonna be here half of the time and I know that I'm not as good at this," Scott gestures between them, "as Stiles is, but I'm willing to try."

"I'm an artist. And take your phone calls outside." Derek keeps his face carefully blank as he says it, but Scott looks offended anyway. Derek knows what it's like to be so infatuated with some girl and forget that other people exist. It can be upsetting for people to point out your own crush though, which is exactly what Scott is experiencing. Derek sighs.  

"Fine. I can do that." Scott replies anyway, much to Derek's surprise. He expected a bit of anger, or maybe even indignation, but Scott just sounds resolute. Derek can respect that.  

"Thanks." he says because respect is important to him, and he can make an effort to be somewhat nice. Scott's eyebrows shoot up as if he didn't expect it, but then he smiles appreciatively. 

Things aren't so bad after that. 

▲

Any time the world gives Derek a carpet to stand on, it's only to yank it from under him later on. 

Allison. 

As in Allison _Argent_. 

God, she looks just like her.

Derek doesn't want to even think about it, doesn't want to even look at Allison. She must not know of him because she just smiles and introduces herself. Derek tries very hard to not run out the door at that very moment. 

He had known about her, vaguely. They'd put her on the contract, but withheld her last name for some reason. It didn’t even cross his mind that it would be _this_ Allison. Allison can't be that rare of a name, but this; this is Derek's life. 

His mind is cloudy, images dancing around it in grayscale. That's how it always is when he remembers her. It's the reason his painting took such a dive, the old vibrancy melting away into monotones of depression. He couldn't actually stop painting, but the painting themselves all felt too barren, so he never showed them to anyone. He took up charcoal instead, thankful for the darkness of it. He'd sketch abstract scenes constantly, most of them half done and abandoned. 

Scott looks away from Allison for a moment and Derek can only imagine what he must look like for Scott to notice. "Are you okay?" 

Derek nods, turning away from them, but not without one last look at Allison. It's brief but long enough for him to catch the look she gives him. It's apologetic, mixed with pity and recognition. She quickly schools her expression back to the the warm smile she was wearing before, but Derek's seen enough. She knows. 

Derek wants to sulk in the bathroom—anything to get away from people. He's never been good at social affairs, especially when they deal with his own social failures. Allison doesn't look any more comfortable than he feels though, smile tight across her lips. He doesn't even know how much she knows.

He walks away. 

"I didn't know it was Derek Hale." He can hear Allison whisper just as he closes the door. He knows she is referring to his connection to her, and not the case. Meaning she didn't know much about him, but must have seen a picture of him somewhere. 

"What just happened?" Scott whispers loudly. Allison doesn't stop him though. 

"He, uh, dated my aunt. Kate." Allison whispers back, and Derek can hear the wince in her voice. 

"That bad, huh?" 

Yeah, Derek thinks, that bad. 

▲

The team had already rented a second room so that Danny could get everyone set up by syncing their phones, digital watches and what ever the hell they're going to use to protect Derek. Allison leaves, opting to stay in the team room whilst Scott joins one of the twins outside,  giving the other twin his first break in ten hours. Allison wouldn’t normally even be here, at least that was what Derek had been told, but Stiles and Danny were running late... because of their date.  

How long a date did they go on? It's ridiculous how annoyed Derek is. He tries not to think about it, maybe he wants Stiles back sooner rather than later because Stiles hadn’t subjected Derek to horrible silences or unwanted trips down memory lane.  

Instead he sits on his bed — having abandoned the bathroom an hour ago — consumed in thoughts about Kate. He didn’t think it was possible to get back to this. He'd been very careful to avoid triggers. He didn’t visit any places they went to together. He got rid of all of their shared items, and burned all of their photos together with Laura. He moved all the way across the state to avoid seeing her. 

Kate had been beautiful and fierce and older. Derek had been just starting to gain confidence in his artwork, feeling alienated in a family that was so deeply rooted in law. He had tried to follow in their footsteps but could never convince himself to like it. Laura was the one that convinced him to pursue art, and Kate was the first person outside of the family to ever see any of his creations. 

It was innocent at first. Derek was drawing in the local coffee shop when he spotted her. She looked like a goddess to him and he was struck with the need to draw her. He was still too shy to ask her so he drew her in secret, rough lines across his paper to capture her essence before she left. She met his gaze as he looked up for a final time, trying to draw the way her hair curled around her face. He knew that guilt spread across his features, but she only smiled and walked over to him, a practiced sway to her hips. It was mesmerizing. 

_How_ _flattering_ , she'd said, leaning against his table. Her hand rested on his shoulder gently, the heat of her palm so very real. He could barely believe what was happening otherwise. He tried to explain what he'd done and why, but Kate just hushed him, _It's okay. You can draw me anytime._  

Derek was aware of his looks. He was attractive enough, even at 16. But getting Kate's number? That felt like victory. She wrote it right under his sketch of her, too.  

He kept it a secret from his parents simply because Kate asked him to. He knew it was illegal to be with her and _How would they understand? They're all lawyers, they'd never let us be together._ Kate was always so sweet to him, making time for him and paying for movies. He instantly fell in love, following her around like a lost dog. And she loved every minute of it.  

Under all the sweetness was a cold heart. Derek first caught sight of it when he refused to have sex. He wasn't ready for it just yet, especially not in the back of Kate's car. She had gotten so mad at him, threatening to break up and then kicking him out to walk home alone. He regretted going against her so badly. But she forgave him and he let her take the lead from there. And he lost his virginity in her car, parked in the woods. He never told her no again.  

He kept drawing, all that time. Kate kept pushing him to do bigger pictures, buying him large canvases that she kept in her apartment. Derek was initially shy to paint around her but eventually he got over it, and Kate's place became his favorite place to paint. She'd sit on her sofa and watch him until she was satisfied with his progress before pulling him away to have sex on the couch, leaving paint stains on the cushions. 

He painted everything, but he especially enjoyed painting cityscapes and landscapes. Sometimes he'd paint Kate, sometimes he'd paint Laura. Kate never liked when he painted other people, but she knew Laura was Derek’s closest sibling, so she allowed it.  

It was when he met Erica that everything took a turn for the worse.  

Erica had been struggling with illness when Laura first befriended her. The two of them were instantly close, Laura keeping other people away from Erica and her weak self-esteem. Laura would help Erica out with her make up and they’d go shopping just to see the girl smile. _You’re beautiful,_ Laura smiled when they returned from their shopping trips, _isn't she, Derek?_

It was Laura's idea. _You should paint Erica a portrait for her birthday._ Derek couldn't see the harm in it so he pulled out a nicely sized canvas and began to paint Erica from memory. He wanted it to be as bright as possible to let her know how much they loved her. The hair was the first thing he blocked in, broad strokes of gold and orange. He decided to highlight with an electric pink to give it some flair that he knew Erica would love.  

Kate didn’t get upset when she found him painting later that day. She took one look at the paint stains on his jeans and hugged him from behind, whispering _How beautiful_ in his ear. And even though it wasn’t for Kate, her praise made him feel so good. He continued to paint with a newfound determination, feeling more creative than he had in a long time. 

The painting was finished a week before Erica’s big party. Laura had gone all out on the decorations and cake. The theme was animal print since Erica was absolutely obsessed with cheetahs. Derek was certain that Laura would make it seem like a scene from a Disney movie by the time all of it came together. He knew that his painting would be on display for Erica to see as soon as she walked through the door and it filled him with great anticipation.   

He returned to Kate’s apartment the next day to find the painting in shambles, canvas ripped from the wood it was stretched upon. The rest of his paintings were nowhere to be found, having once hung on the walls. He at first thought it was a burglar and quickly checked to see if Kate had been home during the break in. He found her in the kitchen, a lighter clinking in her grasp. She looked absolutely furious, and Derek shrunk into himself. He had never made Kate that angry, not since the first time he denied her.

_Derek,_ Kate sneered, holding up the center of the painting. Erica’s face smiled back at him, bright and beautiful, but he felt sick. _Who is she?_ Kate demanded, shaking the painting at him for emphasis. _That’s Erica,_ Derek answered, voice impossibly small in the quiet room. That didn’t seem to please Kate anyway. She simply flicked the lighter on, edging it dangerously close to the painting. Even ripped, Derek still wanted it back. He had put so much hard work into it and there was no way he’d want that to go up in flames. 

_She’s beautiful, Derek. You’ve done a great job this time,_ Kate laughed bitterly. Derek had never seen her this way, so unstable. He didn’t know what to do to stop her or comfort her or just get her to calm down enough to drop the damn lighter. _I saw you painting that day, you know, and I thought to myself, how sweet of him to paint me something._ Kate paused briefly to smile sweetly at him, a terrifyingly fake smile. 

_But no. Apparently you have another blonde whore to paint._ Kate brought the lighter to the painting, the movement no longer a threat but an act of terror. Derek watched as the flames caught into the material and danced along it rapidly, consuming. He watched weeks worth of work burn away in a matter of seconds. 

Kate dropped it before the fire got too close to her fingers, and it fluttered beautifully to the floor. She stomped her boot on it a few times for good measure. 

_Why,_ Derek started to say but couldn't find the right words to complete the question. There were so many why's. The worse part was that he couldn't figure out what he did wrong, but the way Kate looked at him, he was certain he did plenty. 

Kate broke up with him after that, not without saying and doing plenty to make him feel less than dirt, and he withdrew into himself. Laura found out and of course her first course of action was to put Kate behind bars. Derek had only been 17. 

He didn't do much dating after it all. There were flings here and there, but he couldn't get committed. It was terrifying to even think of opening himself up to anyone ever again. He definitely never showed another soul his artwork. 

His art was worse for wear. He couldn't do what he was doing before; it reminded him too much of Kate. The only blessing that came from the entire ordeal was a good scholarship to SVA, all the way across the country. Derek didn't even think twice before leaving. 

▲

Scott isn’t outside for long because Allison soon relieves him after getting a text from Danny saying that he and Stiles are on their way. Scott returns to Derek’s room, informs Derek that Stiles will be back soon and suggests he turn in early. Despite the weird rotations, Derek doesn’t complain. Sleep sounds good and he won't be victim to his own working mind at least. So he just offers a grunt in agreement. 

It isn't hard to fall asleep. Derek feels exhausted and tense so it's almost instantaneous with his head hitting the pillow. Staying asleep? That’s another story entirely. He can't stop dreaming about Laura dying. He can't even reach deep sleep before he’s waking up from another dream. It’s a different death every time, and Derek is furious. He hadn’t been having nightmares back at his apartment meaning that this stupid protection thing is to blame.   

He gives up on the idea of sleep after waking up in a cold sweat for the third time. The bed next to Derek’s is empty but he can hear the murmurs from the team room next door. Derek grunts in frustration, Scott said that Stiles and Danny would be back soon. Dragging himself out of the bed and pulling on his boots he glances at the clock on the bedside. It must have been really early when Scott suggested he turn in because it was only twenty past ten now. He stands and slips his jacket on, happy to feel the slight weight of his phone somewhere within it, meaning that he doesn't have to go looking for it in the dark. Derek pulls on a pair of jeans and takes a peek through the peephole. He doesn't know if anyone is out there, but he knows he can't stay in the room for much longer. He feels like a caged animal. 

Thankfully there isn't anyone guarding his door directly, but Derek remembers that Stiles said there would always be two people on the outside of the hotel watching for suspicious activity. It really doesn't get any more suspicious than him leaving. But there has to be another way out, and Derek's willing to take the chance to try.  

On the first floor is the main laundry room. There isn't anyone in there although the laundry baskets look full. Derek ducks in and finds the employee exit, which leads out into the parking lot. There are a few cars parked, and he silently wishes he had a car of his own to escape in. He uses his phone to call a cab, instructing them to pick him up from the lot. 

At first he doesn't know where to go, but he decides on Laura's grave. It would be good to visit her now, even though she can't offer any advice.  

Just as the cab is pulling out, he sees the familiar blue Jeep turning to pull in. _Finally_ , Derek absentmindedly muses. It’s not like he gives a shit or anything but Stiles is really unprofessional if he’s that complacent with rolling up three hours late.  

It's dark, so he doubts that Stiles will see him, but he sinks low into his seat all the same.  

The drive is uneventful and actually soothing. The driver doesn't have any music playing and he doesn't insist on making pointless conversation. Derek stares blankly out of the window at the passing lights and scenery. He wishes he brought his sketchbook and a flashlight maybe. He could have drawn something for Laura as a substitute for the flowers he wouldn't be able to pick up. 

Derek hands the driver two twenties, doesn't even wait to get his change and stalks off into the cemetery. Laura's grave doesn't have a headstone yet so it sticks out. He saved the grave number on his phone but there is a small plate that says _Laura_ _Hale_ to mark her spot. He takes a seat in front of it and rests his head on his knees.   

Laura was incredibly smart. She always knew what to say and do. Derek truly misses her guidance even though his life isn't so bad right now. He's still not a hundred percent sure that anyone is trying to kill him; he can’t think of a plausible reason for anyone to even have a vendetta against him. Derek lived a reasonably quiet life, tucked away from the world. Maybe that Finstock guy made a mistake. The only truth at this moment is that Derek is here and Laura isn't. He'd gladly switch places.  

An indiscernible amount of time passes in which Derek must have fallen asleep because he wakes up to an angry shove against his shoulder. He immediately rises to his feet, ready to fight if he needs to. He turns to see Stiles standing there, he doesn't look happy either.  

"You signed a binding contract. Do you even know what that means?" Stiles isn't shouting but his words are still loud in Derek's ears. 

"Yes, I — " 

"Apparently you don’t. It means we’re liable, it means we’re responsible for you!” Stiles runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends of it. 

Derek sighs and slumps his shoulders, unsure of what to say. He knows that staying silent will prompt Stiles to keep talking and honestly, the kid talks enough for the both of them anyways. 

"How the hell are we supposed to do our jobs if this is the kind of shit you’re gonna pull?” Stiles demands. 

Derek sighs and glances at Laura’s grave. It’s quiet for a long, long moment.

“If you wanted to visit you only had to ask… _Miguel_." 

Derek's head snaps up at that, and Stiles no longer has an scowl on his face. He's grinning like a fool, arms crossed over his chest. 

"‘Miguel’, really?" 

"Don't thank me now, I know you can hardly contain yourself." Stiles says smugly, rocking back and forth on his heels. Derek groans. 

"Come on _Miguel_ , it's time to get outta here." 

Derek doesn't try to hide his own grin as he follows Stiles out of the cemetery. 

"How'd you find me, anyway?"  

"Tracked your phone." Stiles says without turning around. He waves said phone in air before pocketing it. 

"When did you..." Derek trails off, shoving both hands into his jacket to feel for the phone that was now between Stiles’ fingers. 

 Stiles only laughs. 

▲

They make it back to the hotel without any further incident. Stiles flops down into the bed with a big sigh. Derek stands and just looks at him for a moment. 

Stiles peers up at him suspiciously, "Dude. Go to sleep. We have stuff to do tomorrow." 

Derek wants to ask, but he also doesn't want to know. So he nods and heads to his own bed taking his jeans, jacket and shoes off on the way. As he's pulling the blanket up over himself, he hears Stiles say, "And if you run off in the night again, I will find you and I will kill you." The terrible impersonation making Derek cringe. 

“Don’t you ever stop?” Derek growls, that was one of his favorite movie trilogies and now he would no longer be able to watch those films without remembering this night.

“No. Besides, I don’t think you really want me to.”  

Derek actually _whines_ in frustration and pulls the blankets over  his head. 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dude…” Stiles stresses with a grin. “You're getting the floor really wet.”

Stiles had thought staking some place out would be a lot cooler. 

It isn't. There is no sign of the x-ray binoculars and remote hearing devices he had imagined. Danny’s good, but he’s not that good. 

The situation is made even worse by the fact that their client, Hale, is the most anti-social person Stiles has ever come into contact with, and he has to be here 'to identify any possible suspects,' as Lydia had put it. Pffffft, bullshit. If anything, she had set up the double rendezvous to torture him. In a horrible and stunningly effective way. 

Any attempt to talk to Derek is met with a wince, like responding is equivalent to having each and every one of his fingernails removed slowly. It’s ridiculous and Stiles is going out of his freaking mind.

Did Stiles also mention that they’re alone? Because yeah, they are, and Scott is the biggest traitor on the planet, having dumped Stiles in an awkward situation for the second time in the last six days. For Allison. Which yeah, Stiles should have totally anticipated because he doesn’t have breasts or a vagina or shiny, chestnut hair or even the damn dimples. 

It’s a tough life. And again, Stiles is tallying up all the ways he can serve up a nice hot dose of revenge to his constantly flaking friend. One that has left him bored out of his mind and practically drowning in a puddle of shame and arousal. 

Fidgeting is a tick of his apparently, and unbeknownst to him, it totally annoys his client. 

“What are you, five?” Derek demands, incredulous. “Can’t you sit still?”

Stiles huffs by way of response. So what if his thyroid glands are hyperactive? It’s not like he consciously decided to shuffle and twitch in his seat; besides, the dull and slightly stressful situation is more than enough of an excuse for some mild movement. 

Stiles was lining up a reasonably witty response to lash back at him when Derek tenses in the passenger seat, causing a distinct shift in the air. Knitting his eyebrows together, he turns to the other man to see him staring at something. 

Stiles follows his gaze across the parking lot to the revolving doors of Hale & Co. The guy that is exiting the building totally had that ‘tall, dark stranger,’ thing going on, even though he couldn’t have been more than an inch and a half taller than Derek. He’s sporting one of those douchey, overdramatic quiffs, a brown leather jacket and a matching leather bag. Stiles decides that he would look more at home in the eighties, preferably on the back of a Harley Davidson.

As they watch, the guy steps up to a black BMW Series 4 Coupe, and seriously, why did everyone own a nice car except for him?  

Mr. Slick unlocks his car and places his leather bag on the back seat before sliding behind the wheel. Stiles’ intuition flickers and he openly frowns at the guy’s seemingly pedantic placement of his belongings.   

“He a potential?” Stiles asks, turning to Derek who shakes his head abruptly.

“No. He’s my Uncle.” He responds, as if it is as easy as giving the time. A frown also dominates his features.

Stiles nods slowly, recalling the confirmation call with Cora. 

“Right, your sister mentioned him...” he trails off as Peter Hale starts his car. He didn’t know too much about the guy, other than him being one of the head honchos at the firm. Nonetheless, Stiles files away that thought for later musing, instead focusing on the fact that the only thing he had devoured was a bowl of Frosted Flakes this morning. 

He lasts about another half hour before his stomach starts making embarrassingly loud noises, crying out for nourishment.

“Alright, I’m about to eat my arm here.” Derek shoots him a pointed stare, in which Stiles chooses to ignore. “You hungry? There’s a couple of food places on the way back to the hotel.” 

Before the other could even think to protest, Stiles is backing out of the lot, and starting down the road. 

“I guess…” 

Stiles glances at him. Derek is obviously distracted. 

“What is it? You got a suspect in mind after all?” 

Derek holds Stiles’ gaze for a couple of elongated seconds but otherwise stays silent. Stiles would have interrogated, would have pulled over to the side of the road and demanded whatever information was obviously clouding his client’s mind, but his own is a fuzzy and unconducive place when he’s hungry. 

After a small internal battle with himself Stiles decides on Chipotle, and five minutes later they are settling into a booth and deciding what to challenge their intestinal integrity with. 

Stiles knows what he wants without picking up the menu, so instead he glances around eagerly for a waiter or waitress. Chipotle is serious business, and something he seldom messes around with. 

Lo and behold, a kid no older than sixteen, smiles shortly and makes his way over to their table. 

“What can I tempt you with today?” Stiles tries not to snort at his choice of words, because are they in a Nora Roberts novel or something? Is the guy hoping to snatch Stiles up by the collar of his shirt, lustfully expecting Stiles to reply with, ‘It’s not on the menu’ in one of those ridiculous sultry voices before stealing away to the quickest bathroom? Nonetheless, he puts on as straight a face as he can manage. 

“A plate of steak, brown rice and cheese, soft tacos.” Stiles answers immediately leaning forward to glance at the the guy’s name badge. Michael grins at Stiles’ enthusiasm before turning to Derek. 

“Nothing for me, thanks.” 

Stiles sighs dramatically. “Dude, come on. This isn’t Twilight, you’re allowed to enjoy eating.” 

Michael sniggers and Derek glares at both of them, Stiles raises his hands in a show of defense. 

“I won’t hold it against you if you actually enjoy yourself… I promise.” Stiles placates.

Apparently Derek is hungry because he relents.  

“Fine. I’ll have a grilled steak burrito with rice and salsa, please,” he says, damn near grinding his teeth in the process. Someone needs to give the guy Prozac and call it a day.  

“I’ll be right back with your orders.” Michael responds with another friendly grin before walking away. Stiles watches him go with a sly smirk, eyes instantly turning to Derek’s. 

“What?” Derek demands almost as soon as their eyes meet. 

“Who knew Chipotle would be your dirty little secret, Mr. Biceps.”  

“Shut up.” Derek snaps, shifting in his seat and causing the leather of his jacket to rub against the leather of the booth seat. Derek freezes and Stiles just stares until he’s bursting out into guffaws of laughter, attracting the attention of anyone who hadn’t heard the embarrassing mimic farting noise. 

Derek’s face remains stoic but his eyes dart around the restaurant, clearly embarrassed. Stiles is all out rolling around on the table as he laughs. They may be judging him but Stiles is a twenty one year old, grown man, and his life choices are none of their business. Besides, Derek’s face is just too funny for him to give a damn. The snickers eventually die off as people turn back to their food.  

“Oh my god, dude… Your face…” Stiles snorts. 

Derek glares at him until their food arrives. 

Stiles immediately digs in, glancing at his watch three tacos in, realizing that they'd probably be about ten minutes late getting back to the hotel. His chewing slows as he worries about that for a couple of seconds before deciding that Scott could deal with it, just like he’d made Stiles deal with it, twice, before this case had even properly started.  

Stiles glances at Derek who is steadily making his way through his burrito, the usual frown missing from his face in favor of actually enjoying his food. Any other time Stiles probably would have said something, but strangely enough he doesn’t want the frown or the glare to return, and being facetious will only draw attention to the fact that Derek isn’t currently brooding. So Stiles says nothing, coming to the conclusion that the guy is probably self-aware enough as it is. 

As Stiles eats, he thinks back to their stake out. Derek had been pretty distracted after seeing his uncle, which seemed… odd especially when he considered Peter Hale’s behaviour. The instinct that Stiles had developed by sticking his nose into his father’s cop cases told him that there was something slightly off about the oldest member of the Hale family.  

When Stiles is done, he sits back and waits for Derek to finish, at which point it became obvious that he is going to hell when he dies. Where else does someone who thinks eating a burrito is akin to a blow job going to go when they pass on? 

After dropping some lame line about nature calling, Stiles awkwardly excuses himself to the bathroom, leaving Derek sitting in the booth all alone. He spends about two minutes leaned against the stall reprimanding himself for even considering getting himself off. 

On his way back to the table Stiles stops off at the front counter.

“I’d like to pay for our meal.” He tells the cute brunette who is so short her head is only just visible between the cash register and the self-service soda machine. 

“Alright, table number please.” She smiles. 

“Sixteen.” He says, turning just enough to see Derek’s shoulder peeking out from behind a divider that separates the booth seats from the round tables. In hindsight, it probably was a bad idea to have left Derek sitting there alone just for a bathroom break. It’s extreme and unlikely given the subtlety of the previous attempt on Derek's life, but if the culprit got desperate Stiles wouldn’t rule out a walk in shooting. 

“That’s twenty two dollars and thirty four cents.” 

Stiles hands her thirty five dollars. “Keep the change.” he says before walking back to the booth. 

Stiles is naturally light on his feet, and in the bustling restaurant Derek can’t heard him approaching. 

“Well… You’re easy to sneak up on, no wonder you need a bodyguard.” Stiles says, his voice lowering to a whisper.

Derek’s head whips around. “You're not exactly what they’d call professional, are you?” He says drily after a moment of shocked silence, a familiar glare set onto his face.  

Stiles quirks an eyebrow. “Who’s they?” 

Derek huffs. 

“You ready to go?” Stiles asks, glancing at his watch. “We’re going to be unacceptably late if we don’t leave now.”

Derek frowns. “Aren't we going to pay?” 

“It’s taken care of… Seriously we’re going to be really late, and don't get me wrong, Scott deserves it with all the crap he’s done to me, but if Lydia finds out…” Stiles suppresses a shudder of fear, Lydia will make a chew toy of him if he breaks another one of her damned rules. 

Derek stands, his body tense, and Stiles thinks he even looks a little paranoid. Maybe it was a really bad idea to have left him alone like that.

“You payed for both of us. Do I look like your date?” Derek demands. 

And now it’s Stiles’ turn to frown, he could practically feel the sarcastic remarks building up. 

“Honestly, did you read the contract? ‘No physical or verbal contact unless absolutely necessary, i.e. to keep up appearances, or in the unlikely event that you are alone.’ It wasn’t necessary for you to talk to a second person that could sometime in the future be unknowingly grilled on your whereabouts, so I paid. But I can’t say that the date didn’t cross my mind…” Stiles trails off, having made his point.

Derek just continues to glare.  

                                                                                              ▲

 

They are, in fact, fifteen minutes late back to the hotel, but to Stiles’ surprise and mild annoyance Scott doesn’t mention it. 

Derek immediately disappears into the bathroom, dropping his jacket on his bed on his way through, mumbling about showers and long days in cars that don’t have an AC. Stiles rolls his eyes and flops down on the bed next to Derek’s.

“How was the stakeout?” Scott asks from the three screen computer setup Stiles had manufactured in his spare moments. Sure, Danny had one set up next door, but Stiles likes his own, and if he actually likes research then that’s his business.  

“A bust, unless who ever tried to kill our client is just really normal, and by normal, I mean boring.”

Scott huffs in amusement and then glances towards the bathroom. 

“Is he alright? He’s… I dunno… distracted.” Scott muses.

Stiles heaves himself up and glances at the bathroom door too, making sure that he can hear the shower running. He hears it loud and clear so he turns to Scott and leans a little closer. 

“Ok, look. Don’t make a huge deal of it because it’s literally nothing, but Derek’s Uncle was at Hale & Co today.” 

“Yeah, he took over for Derek and Cora. Seriously, did you even read the brief, Stiles?” Scott grins.

“Of course I did, I read it twice.” Stiles says absent mindedly, shifting on the bed. “It’s just that... his behaviour was… odd, and I mean he could just be a really careful guy, but when I saw him it… it  reminded me of the times I used to get involved with my Dad’s cases.” 

Scott frowns. Having grown up with Stiles he remembers how he and Stiles used to sneak into the station his father works at and get themselves into all kinds of trouble. Scott remembers how Stiles used to get shifty and uncomfortable around certain members of the incarcerated, and because of that he trusts Stiles’ instincts.

“Okay well, we’ll keep this to ourselves and just… keep an eye out.” Scott says quietly.

Stiles hums in agreement and lies back down. He toes his trainers off and throws an arm over his eyes. “I swear Scott, it’s only day two and I’m so freaking tired. I think this case is going to kill me.” 

Scott laughs. “Dude, you have more energy than all of us put together, you’ll be fine.”

“Whatever.” Stiles grumbles.

▲

Derek steps out of the shower, grabbing the glass shower door as his foot slips on the polished tiles. He growls before righting himself and wrapping a towel around his waist. He brushes his teeth before heading out into the main room, more than ready for sleep, never mind the early hour. 

Scott’s gone, and Stiles is lying stomach down on the bed, his face turned towards Derek, right arm bent under his cheek and his feet dangling off the end. Derek stares, not understanding why the scene appeals to him so much. Maybe it’s because Stiles is quiet. Maybe it’s because Stiles is always moving, and Derek has never seen him so still. And maybe it’s because that stillness allows Derek to see the relaxed length of Stiles back. 

His eyes follow the and curve and dip of muscle through plaid shirt and blue denim, pulled tight around Stiles by his positioning. 

Stiles feels the atmosphere shift, despite the fact that he’s nearly asleep, and cracks an eye open to see Derek standing just outside the bathroom door looking in his direction. Stiles shifts and closes his eye.

“Dude… you’re getting the carpet all wet…” Stiles mumbles, his speech foggy with sleep. It isn't until Derek moves to get dressed that Stiles’ brian catches up and he realises that there is a naked and rather good looking guy, fresh out the shower, not even four feet away from him. 

Both of Stiles’ eyes snap open, and he watches as Derek bends and pulls the top draw of the motel dresser open, his muscles flexing minutely. Stiles doesn’t move but his mouth goes dry as he watches the leftover beads of water rolling off Derek’s shoulders and down his back before being absorbed by the towel around his waist. Then, apparently unable to stop himself, Stiles’ eyes then follow the towel over Derek’s hips and below, watching some of water catch in the hair on his legs before whatever is left leaves a faint footprint in the plush carpet.  

Stiles pauses on the Derek’s hips and ass, admiring the shape which is made all the more appealing by the realisation that all that exists between Derek’s body and Stiles’ eyes is a length of slightly rough material.  

All too soon in Stiles’ opinion Derek straightens up, a t-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts in his hands. He pushes the draw shut with his towel covered thigh and glances at Stiles who is less embarrassed than he thought he’d be when their eyes meet. 

Their gaze holds, neither of them moving. Stiles blinks slowly and Derek finds that more obscene than the curve of Stiles’ ass that he had been admiring. He also finds that he had never been this attracted to anyone since Kate, and even then his abdomen wasn’t tightening like this by the end of day four. 

Despite the fact that his skin is still damp Derek pulls his t shirt over his head and down over his chest, maintaining eye contact with Stiles in some bizarre reverse strip tease. 

Stiles stares at Derek expectantly, surprised at how forward he’s being considering he always seems so troubled. 

Stiles is aware, despite the way he’s staring, that this is totally unprofessional, and it puts both of them in a difficult position. Not to mention would probably threaten the integrity of the whole operation.       

Although disappointed by his reasoning, Stiles manages to placate himself by deciding that there is no harm in the flirty foreplay they are currently engaging in. So he pushes himself up off the bed, effectively breaking eye contact with Derek as he steps towards the bathroom. 

He lets his eyes move over Derek’s body, his lips parting slightly when he notices the remaining shower water running down thick muscles and catching in dark hair before being absorbed by the carpet.  

Stiles lifts his eyes up to Derek’s face who is watching Stiles, his own eyes dark and careful. Stiles notes how Derek’s grip on his shorts is now limp… and oh god, why did they have to be basketball shorts? It’s like the universe knows that basketball shorts come a close second to being naked in Stiles’ mind, what with the way they hang off hips, hiding muscled thighs and showing off that trademark ‘V’.  

Their gaze holds until Stiles is a foot away from the bathroom where he pauses. 

Derek doesn't know what he was expecting but it certainly wasn’t what he gets

“Dude…” Stiles stresses with a grin. “You're getting the floor really wet.” 

Derek’s almost slack face is replaced with a scowl so quickly that Stiles laughs. 

Derek takes an angry step forward realizing he’d just been played but Stiles just laughs harder as he hops over the wet patch and disappears into the bathroom leaving Derek staring at the door with those famed basketball shorts hanging from his hand.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Donuts. Really?" Danny sighs. And really, Stiles expected as much. "We're not even cops and yet you insist on making that joke. Unless you’ve decided that you want a shot at being Miss Congeniality."
> 
> "Wouldn’t that be something, huh. We could do pizza and shots and maybe Allison can tell us that she wants world peace." Stiles smiles, crossing his arms and glancing at her.

Stiles thinks that they should all be a little more concerned with the lack of professionalism their “company” shows on a weekly basis. Not that he can really say much since he usually spends most of his office hours goofing off with Scott on the Xbox he isn’t even supposed to have at work. If they do well on this case, maybe they’ll get more work. Or maybe they’ll change into an actual crime unit, like on TV. The ones that the real cops consult with when they’re stumped. 

But yeah, professionalism. It’s usually what Lydia constantly snaps at them about. They all rely on her to keep them on their toes. Which is why he was meeting with her to talk about extremely sensitive material. 

At Starbucks. 

He tries not to think about what this means for the rest of them. What it means for the balance of the entire universe. Lydia Martin, slacking off. Where’s the flying pigs?

While Stiles couldn’t care less about being punctual for Scott, being punctual for Lydia is an entirely different story. She once looked him dead in the eye and asked him if he knew what rhymed with being punctual. He was drawing a blank when she sat back in her chair and said, “Not getting a lung punctured.” And while it was terribly cliche, it was still terrifying. So, punctual he is. 

Lydia’s already got a cup of… whatever in front of her when he walks through the door. She at least had the decency to choose a table that offers them the most privacy they can manage in a public place. It’s still early so most people are grabbing coffee and leaving. Stiles orders a large, scratch that, a Venti coffee with a shot of espresso. The barista is clearly having a great morning because she whips it up in record time, a smile on her face the entire time. Stiles makes sure to thank her and gives her a dollar tip. 

He takes a seat across from Lydia, giving a greeting and getting a nod in return. She has her tablet out, fingers flying over the on-screen keyboard furiously. Lydia shouldn’t still impress Stiles with her random talents anymore, not after all the time they’ve known each other, but apparently she still does. When she’s satisfied with whatever she has typed up, she finally looks up at him. 

“Did you get any new information from the stakeout?” Lydia asks, foregoing any idle chit chat. 

“No, not really. There wasn’t anyone hanging around the place that didn’t belong there. So I think that Derek was wrong about them going after Erica. I think it’s a little more personal.” 

“Right. What about this Mercer person you mentioned in your email?” 

“Oh, he worked with Laura on a bunch of cases. Laura wasn’t really focusing on the family business anymore, so most of the people she worked with on a daily basis were actually in law enforcement. Apparently she didn’t have many good things to say about Mercer.”  
Stiles doesn’t know so much about the situation since Derek was almost completely clueless about that particular situation himself. And he couldn’t find anything about Mercer online that linked him to Laura, besides a few news articles mentioning their names briefly as those that helped put whichever criminal away. 

“From what I have read, Laura was rather intelligent and headstrong. Maybe Mercer didn’t like her brand of feminine charm?” Lydia replies, typing once again. 

“Could be.” Stiles shrugs. If it were up to him, he’d just go up to Mercer and question him directly. It didn’t make sense for them to theorize if they weren’t allowed to act on it. Hell, if Mercer was the one that killed Laura, he could easily use his own position to get away with it. Especially since they were already in the midst of a big case, so says one of the articles he read last night. 

“Stiles.” Lydia has this thing she does with her eyes that always sends chills up Stiles’ spine. When he had a crush on her in High School, it was the good kind of chills. Now they’re bad chills. Really bad, terrified chills. 

“What?” 

“You’ve got that look right now. Like you’re thinking about doing something stupid.” 

“Really? I was thinking about being all kinds of smart today. Might even try a crossword.”

“What is it that you have in mind?”    
“Nothing!” Stiles leans forward in his chair, almost knocking his coffee off of the table. “But if I did have something in mind, it definitely wouldn’t be questioning Mercer since no one else would think to question the top Detective, you know.”

Lydia stares at him, completely unimpressed. “Hypothetically speaking, if you could even get close to him, what would you ask?”    
“Well, hypothetically speaking, I’d ask him about his involvement with Laura, and about the last time he saw her.” 

Lydia clasps her hands together, a thoughtful expression on her face. Stiles can’t believe he’s even gotten this far without her shooting him down. She visibly mulls it over, nodding her head to the thoughts that Stiles obviously can't hear. He's ready to start biting nails comically in anticipation. 

"I'll see if Danny—"

"Yes!" Stiles throws his arms up, and if Lydia didn't grasp his cup at that very moment, there'd be a cleanup at Table 5. She gives him a stern look for the trouble, but Stiles isn’t fazed. This is the first time he’d ever gotten his own way with Lydia, he has every right to celebrate.

"If Danny can get you a way in, you'll go in with Scott to question Mercer. Do not make it an interrogation. Are we clear?" At some point Lydia let go of his cup in favor of squeezing the living daylights out of his wrist. 

"Crystal!" He doesn't squeak. Not at all. 

"Good. Get back to the Hotel." 

"You got it, Lickity Split!" Stiles scoops up his coffee and salutes her before turning away to make his escape. 

"Stop calling me that!" 

▲

 

Stiles drives back to the hotel after picking up a few snacks for the team. He hopes that donuts will get him a few laughs. Or sighs. Probably sighs. His humor is lost on them, really.  

Ethan and Aiden are sitting in their car outside of the hotel. They're still new to the group so Stiles has a hard time telling them apart. They definitely have the whole ‘good twin, bad twin' thing going on, personality-wise, but Stiles doesn’t even get lucky with the wardrobe. Nope, they actually dress really similar. It’s probably a security tactic to confuse anyone who might come after whoever they were guarding or anyone they might be tailing. 

One of them is doing their job diligently, eyes scanning the front of the hotel. The other is tapping away on his phone, feet pulled up onto the dashboard. Stiles drives past them, needing to park his baby before he can make his way upstairs. He walks back to their car first, seeing one of the twins rolling down the window to greet him. Hopefully Ethan. 

"Hey, how's it going?" He gives a quick wave.

"Boring." The twin with his feet up groans. Definitely Aiden.

"Yeah. This isn't the most popular hotel in the world, so there’s not much action." Ethan shrugs, but he doesn't look too upset over it. 

"Maybe it's better that way? Not that I'd ever doubt you guys or your muscles." Stiles offers weakly. He would never, ever want to be on guard duty. 

"Sure, Stilinski. Just like we'd never doubt that big brain of yours." Aiden grins while he says it, and it really just creeps Stiles out. He doesn't really understand why or how Aiden can make him uncomfortable like that when Ethan doesn't ever seem to do the same. 

"Yeah, yeah. So, donuts?" Stiles holds up the box and gives it a tiny shake for emphasis. When the twins nod simultaneously, like it’s not a really creepy thing to do, he opens it and lets them pick one. Aiden takes a Boston Creme while Ethan takes a jelly-filled. 

"Thanks, Stiles." Aiden says around a mouthful. Stiles dutifully does not laugh. He closes the box and starts walking towards the hotel entrance. 

"No problem, Tabasco." Stiles smirks to himself. 

"I heard that!" He hears Aiden yell behind him. 

                                                                           ▲

 

Their base of operations can hardly be described as a hotel suite. One, because this was a motel and two… well its and freaking motel, they can’t really afford fancy right now and fancy isn’t exactly inconspicuous anyway. 

There are two single beds and desk in the same places as they are in Derek’s room, in fact the layout is exactly the same except this room has two wardrobes one of which Scott had bumped into countless times already as he made his way out of the bathroom. 

The beds are currently covered with jackets and equipment bags and the wardrobe temporarily housed the team’s spare computer, provided by Jackson’s blissfully unaware parents. 

Stiles adjusted his grip on the box of doughnuts and crossed over to the desk Danny was sitting at, nearly tripping on a tangle of cables that ran from an outlet next to one of the wardrobes, across the carpet, past the ends of the beds and under the desk. Stiles cursed the gloom and snipped internally about the damn security risk of opening the curtains.   

Danny has a pretty similar set up to the one Stiles put together in Derek's room. The light from the screens and Allison's phone are the only sources of light in the entire room.  Danny's seated in front of the computers, while Allison is seated on an uncovered section of the bed. Texting Scott, Stiles doesn’t doubt. 

Allison waves to Stiles quickly before returning to her phone, but Danny doesn't even acknowledge him. He's busy typing and searching the Internet for something. Stiles places the box of donuts on the bed before stepping behind him to see what's on the screen. Danny reaches behind himself and pushes at Stiles' face with his hand. 

"It’s pretty rude to stare over someone's shoulder, you know." 

"It's even ruder to not greet someone when they walk in. With donuts, no less." Stiles retorts, but his voice is muffled and distorted by Danny's palm. Allison snorts. 

"Donuts. Really?" Danny sighs. And really, Stiles expected as much. "We're not even cops and yet you insist on making that joke. Unless you’ve decided that you want a shot at being Miss Congeniality." 

"Wouldn’t that be something, huh. We could do pizza and shots and maybe Allison can tell us that she wants world peace." Stiles smiles, crossing his arms and glancing at her. 

"I would be kicked off the stage so fast, weapon salesmen don’t really get much of a say in ‘world peace’.” Allison points out, but she's smiling. 

"How about Tony Stark. Peacekeeping missiles seem right up your alley."

"Argent Industries." Allison muses. Silence sets in before try both burst out laughing. It's not really all that funny, not really, but there is some truth to it which makes it absolutely hilarious. Allison's family might not be in the warhead business, but they do manufacture bullets and have a huge collection of guns. They even make their own crossbows, which Allison is trained to use. 

"If only your family picked a cool name. They just had to go with ‘Silver’ lame!" Stiles chuckles, a hand clutching his side. 

Allison calms down and brushes hair from her face "My grandfather wasn't very creative." 

Danny clears his throat, effectively getting both of their attention. Allison pockets her phone and turns to give Danny her full attention. Stiles really needs to work on getting people to respond to him like that. If he cleared his throat, they'd just stare at him like he was terminally ill, and then go on ignoring him. It's a pretty sad life, man. 

Danny just pulls out his phone and makes quick work of selecting a contact to call. Stiles and Allison both stay silent, curiosity brimming between them. And Stiles suddenly knows what the call is about and he begins to rock on the balls of his feet in excitement.  

“Yes, I can get them to Mercer... They could be reporters following the most recent murders. Before Laura Hale, yes. Alright, I'll tell them. Yes, Lydia. Bye." Danny hangs up with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. It's hilarious how the team only does that when Lydia can't see them. 

"What was that about? Stiles looks like he's ready to throw a party." Allison smiles, his enthusiasm not lost on her. She always seems to respond to everyone else's mood. 

"We're gonna interrogate a cop!" Stiles shouts, bouncing up and down. Allison and Danny give him a judgmental look. It does nothing to bring Stiles down though. It's not everyday that he can say Lydia actually listened to him. It's a Christmas miracle. Minus the Christmas part. 

“Lydia said it wasn’t an interrogation.” Danny points out, pissing on Stiles’ enthusiasm.

Stiles doesn’t hang around to retort, he needs to run over and tell Scott the great news. This is it, they finally get to do what they've been wanting to so since the days of messing with his Dad's work. Just as he's about to throw the door open, a thought occurs to him. If Scott can't stay with Derek, then who? 

"Uh, what about Derek? Is Allison gonna..." He says, catching her eye. She shifts in her seat uncomfortably. 

"Not me." She sighs, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She looks away from Danny and Stiles, making it very obvious that whatever it is, she doesn’t want to talk about it. Stiles can appreciate that, really he can, but his curiosity is a heady beast to beat, and he will do anything in his power to find out what’s got Allison so on edge. 

AKA he’s gonna ask Scott. Duh. 

Danny is quick to verbally step in and lighten the entire mood. 

“I’ll take care of it… him, whatever, Stiles. You should go tell Scott to get ready.” He even gives Stiles the get-the-hell-out-of-here eyes. 

While Stiles is anything but subtle, he knows how to take a hint. So he waves to both of them before scrambling out of the room, practically tripping over his own legs. 

Derek’s room is right next door, making it easy for the the team to continuously rotate between the rooms. He knocks even though he has a key. It’s nice to give people some semblance of privacy, even if they are kind of monitoring the room at all times. Scott answers the door with a dopey grin, offering a lazy wave as greeting. Stiles returns an equally lazy one. He doesn’t want to spill the beans in front of Derek, meaning he needs to wait for Danny to get here before he can basically scream like a girl over it. 

Scott obviously knows something's up because he gives Stiles a strange look, arching an eyebrow up in silent question. Stiles can’t understand what gave him away. Maybe it’s the way he’s almost vibrating out of his skin. Or the fact that he has his lips pressed together in fear of his mouth’s usual betrayal. He shakes his head a little too quickly when Scott continues to try reading his mind, making himself dizzy. Seriously, where the hell is Danny? He’s more than ready to just grab Scott and make a run for it. Scott’s totally dressed for it. He’s…

He’s in pajama pants.

Really, Scott?  
    
“Dude, why the hell are you in pajamas? You should be dressed for anything, like a bomb, come on, Scott, what if there was a bomb? Does no one care about being professional anymore? I swear, I’m going to make it mandatory for you to wear a suit at all times. And running shoes.” 

Scott looks completely confused, as if their very destiny hasn’t just shifted. “Says the dude that wears plaid religiously?”

“They make plaid suits. But that’s not even the point.” Stiles scoffs. 

“What, exactly, is the point?” Scott asks innocently enough. 

“I can’t—Just. Get ready. Jeans. Shoes.” Stiles makes shooing motions with his hands and forces his way into the room. Derek’s sitting on his bed, sketchbook in hand. His pencil is raised in his hand, but he’s staring at Stiles instead of the page. 

“Hey, how’s it going?” Stiles greets nervously. Derek looks momentarily surprised before schooling his expression once again, the post shower moment in the forefront of both their minds.

“Fine.” He answers before returning to his sketchbook, cutting off the rest of the world. Stiles would like to know exactly what it is that Derek draws, but he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to look. Derek’s got on knee drawn up and the book resting on it as his left hand holds it steady with the cover at a ninety degree angle so that if they glanced over they'd only see the black of the cover. 

Stiles shoots a look to Scott, who still hasn’t moved. Scott just shrugs and walks off to the bathroom to hopefully get ready. Danny chooses that exact moment to walk in the room without knocking. Derek’s eyes flick up once again and Stiles tries not to notice how dark those lashes are, he really does.  

“Scott ready to go?” Danny asks, glancing around the room. He nods towards Derek. Derek ignores him. 

“He’s in the bathroom right now. Should I introduce you guys or?” Stiles looks between the two of them, feeling the tension grow in the air. He’s almost certain it’s all from Derek since Danny doesn’t really do the whole animosity thing. 

“We already met. I had to help Scott with the computer earlier.” Danny shrugs. “You guys should hurry up and go. Stop by Lydia’s to pick up your IDs.” 

Scott pokes his head out of the bathroom at that very moment, “Fake IDs?”

Stiles glares at Scott and Danny, which was tough from where he was standing in between the two beds seeing as the bathroom and Scott are on his left and Danny is on his right.  He tries to convey Shut Up with his eyes but Scott doesn’t even bother looking remotely apologetic before ducking back into the bathroom. Danny just shrugs. 

Scott emerges a few seconds later, thankfully wearing jeans. He makes quick work of his shoes before Stiles all but drags him out of the room. Danny and Derek watch them go, one amused, and the other extremely confused.

▲

 

Scott wastes no time trying to get the information out of Stiles. They’re barely down the hall when he starts asking about it, but Stiles keeps his lips zipped until they make it to the safety of his car. Which is really hard with Scott throwing puppy dog eyes around and whining, but Stiles is a man. A strong man that doesn’t fall victim to his friends stupid dog face. Most of the time. 

His jeep seems so far away with so much wonderful news on the tip of his tongue. He barely gets the door open in his excitement, tripping once again over his own feet as he tries to jump inside. Scott is far more graceful as he slides into the passenger seat, buckling himself in and looking at Stiles expectantly. 

“Okay, so this is gonna sound crazy,” Stiles starts, waiting to catch his breath. He doesn’t even know why he’s so winded. “But Lydia agreed to let us, as in Scott and Stiles, Rocky and El Diablo…”

“The code names again?” Scott sighs.

“Rocky and El Diablo! The dynamic duo of sarcasm and asymmetry; we could be comic book characters. Anyway, we get to interrogate a cop!” Stiles finishes with a flourish of his hands. He waits for the news to hit Scott, sure that it will get him just as excited. 

It doesn’t. 

“Did Lydia agree to that?”

“Totally.”

“Did she say interrogate or did she actually use a very different word?” 

“Maybe.”

“And what word was it?”

“They’re not that different, Scott. Interrogation. Questioning. They’re practicably interchangeable.” Stiles shrugs with a nervous chuckle. Sometimes Scott is really perceptive. Or maybe he’s just terrified of messing up. Lydia’s wrath is the thing of nightmares. 

“What’s our cover? Danny said we’re getting fake IDs.” 

“Reporters.” 

“So, we’re essentially asking questions for an article?” Scott isn’t getting excited over this the way Stiles thought he would. In fact, he just looks bored. How is that even possible? 

“It’ll be awesome, okay? You’ll see.” Stiles sighs, pulling out of the parking lot for the second time that day. He sure as hell hopes it’ll be awesome. What if this Mercer dude is seven feet tall and 500 pounds of pure muscle? What if he doesn’t like being interrogated? What if he likes hurting stupid dynamic duos? 

“I’ll take your word for it.” Scott shrugs. 

▲

 

Stiles and Scott swing by their makeshift office, Lydia’s and Jackson’s flat, and met with Lydia to go over their plan again. She reminds Stiles that this is indeed not an interrogation, which has Scott shooting I-told-you-so glances his way the entire time. Stiles ignores him. 

Jackson is the one that actually has their IDs, much to Stiles’ displeasure. It’s not like they actually hate each other anymore, not since High School at least. But there are images to uphold, such as Jackson’s douchebag facade. Stiles kind of gets it, old habits are hard to break. Besides, Stiles is much more interested in seeing what picture of him they used for the ID and is surprised to find that it’s actually a pretty good one. It’s a picture from his last year at college, when he’d taken to wearing glasses more often than not. He’d have to dig them out of his drawer to match his ID, though, which is exactly what he does. 

Scott’s picture is an exact copy from his veterinary ID. He did a short internship out of state with a big animal hospital. They loved how he had previous experience, even if he didn’t actually go for a veterinary major. It’s a nice picture. 

They make it back to the Jeep and start heading to the police department near Hale & Co. It’s going to take a while to drive there and Stiles wants to get there as soon as possible. He’s really not sure what to expect of the police. His Dad may be the Sheriff, but he knows that a Sheriff’s department works a little differently from the Police. 

The trip is pretty silent, Scott tapping away on his phone every now and again. Stiles keeps himself occupied by tapping on the steering wheel in time with the songs on the radio. He sings some songs obnoxiously, and Scott joins in for a few as well. It reminds him of the days before girls and guys, when they’d drive around in Stiles’ Jeep looking for trouble. Stiles had hooked up a police radio into his car to keep up with his Dad’s work, and sometimes they’d try to get in on the action. All they really ever got was grounded though. 

Stiles looks at Scott again. He’s still texting on his phone, and Stiles suddenly remembers the way Allison was acting back at the hotel. He figures it’d be okay to ask. 

“So, what’s up with Allison and Derek?” 

Scott’s head shoots up and he looks surprised, as if he didn’t expect Stiles to ever ask him such a question. “Why do you ask?”

“She seemed pretty uncomfortable about being alone with him.” 

“Well, they have some history. It’s uncomfortable for the both of them, really.” Scott sighs, dropping his phone onto his lap. “He dated her aunt and apparently it was a really bad break up. He basically ran when he saw her.”

“Wait, wait. Derek ran away? From Allison?” Stiles doesn’t even know how he keeps the Jeep from swerving at that moment. 

“Yeah, dude. It was bizarre.” 

“That’s so weird.” Stiles shakes his head. He can’t imagine Derek being scared of anything, much less Allison. Even if she does steal Scott all the time, she’s not a bad person. She’s only scary when she pulls out a crossbow. And he’s pretty sure that didn’t happen. Best to ask anyway. “She didn’t have a crossbow on her, did she?”

“No!” Scott laughs. "I just brought her over for introductions, and dude, you should have seen his face. He went pale." Scott runs a hand over his own face, expression close to a zombie's. Stiles snorts.

"So weird." 

"So... What about you and Derek?" Scott asks suddenly. Stiles feels his own eyes widen and his mouth drop open. 

"Wha... Me and Derek? Why'd you ask?" 

"You like him, don't you?" 

Stiles really wonders how he keeps himself on the road at that point. He makes a few incomprehensible noises while trying to think of an answer. Sure, Derek's attractive and maybe he's not so bad once you get past the brooding. 

And well, Stiles still can't get the image of him in nothing but a towel out of his head. Which is pretty bad when he can't have any alone time to properly enjoy it. ‘Little Stiles’ is very disappointed actually, not that that’s anything new. 

But like him? That's... Totally unprofessional. Yeah. Totally. 

"See, look at your face! You totally have a thing for Derek Hale!" Scott shouts excitably, his phone falling from his lap in the commotion. He doesn't seem to notice though. 

"My face—What? Seriously, no! I do not. Guy looks like the type to, I don’t  know... growl at you at the gym or something." Stiles flounders. 

"Like you even know what a gym is." Scott teases, pinching at Stiles' arms and only catching a layer of fabric. 

"Woah, woah. Don't diss the physique. I'm fine as hell." 

"Oh yeah. So fine. I’m sure Derek would agree." Scott grins, finally reaching down to grab his phone from the floor and almost choking himself with his seatbelt. 

"I hate you so much." Stiles groans, but he's actually happy that they're not fighting anymore. Fighting that consists of Scott throwing puppy eyes around and Stiles pretending they don't affect him. They seriously need to get better at the whole "I'm mad at you" schtick. 

Scott hums in agreement, obviously unphased by the might of Stiles' hatred. 

                                                                    ▲

Stiles has to pull up the GPS app on his phone to stop himself getting lost and they make it to their destination without too much trouble.  

The police station is a huge building, way bigger that the Sheriff's department back home. The architecture looks old as well, with wide arcs and tall ceilings. It kind of reminds him of a TV show, standing in front of it. Scott looks just as impressed, which is gratifying seeing as Stiles has been on an one-man excitement party since they left. 

"Are we really going to do this?" Scott asks, clipping his fake ID onto his jacket. Stiles does the same, nodding. It's too late to back out now, Stiles already paid for gas. 

"We got this." Stiles says, hoping that his bravado with raise morale. He starts humming the theme song for Psych under his breath, which doesn't really help the situation at all. Scott gives him a light shove for it too. 

The inside isn't much different from what Stiles has seen on Law & Order. There's a front desk with an extremely bored receptionist sitting behind it. Her hair is pulled into a tight bun, the darkness of it a stark contrast to her pale skin. She doesn't even look up when Stiles and Scott step inside. They actually have to walk up to the desk and announce that they're there for her to give them the time of day. Her bored expression instantly shifts to annoyance when she spots the IDs. 

"You're here about the Johnson case." She says with disdain. "I got a call about you 20 minutes ago. Didja go over the speed limit or what?"

Stiles doesn't know what he expected, but damn Danny is good. 

"We were already in the area." He says smiling slightly. Her expression doesn’t shift and Stiles strikes ‘charming strangers with a single smile’ off his list of abilities. 

"Right. Well, have a seat. I'll tell Reyes to come on down." The receptionist waves them off, picking up the phone and punching in an extension number. Stiles and Scott take their seats on a hideously green sofa, listening as the receptionist calls upstairs. 

"Who the heck is Reyes?" Scott leans in and whispers nervously. Stiles just shrugs and pushes him away. 

They wait there for maybe five minutes. A few people come and go, and a cop brings in a drunk guy that kept licking his lips while looking at Scott. It's a very uncomfortable five minutes to say the least. 

Stiles is busy playing Tetris on his phone when someone comes to stand in front of them. Someone in a very tight, very short skirt. At least they're wearing stockings. 

"How can I help you, gentlemen?" The legs say. Stiles snaps his head up to lock eyes with a beautiful blond, seeing her red lips spread into a smile. He looks over to Scott, who is also staring at the woman with unconcealed fear. 

Reyes. They should have made the connection, Stiles thinks. Erica Reyes. Erica worked with Laura on this case right before she died so it makes sense that she would continue in Laura's stead. Stiles is extremely grateful that he didn't meet any of Derek's contacts in person. At least she won’t recognize them.

"We're here to ask a few questions about the Johnson case." Scott says, having recovered from his recent heart attack. Erica raises an eyebrow at him before nodding. 

"I know that. How about we go upstairs?" She steps back to allow the two of them to stand before leading them to the elevator. Stiles tries to think of a plan of action on the way up, wondering how he'll get to talk to Mercer. 

"Uhm, actually, we were told to interview Detective Mercer." Scott has pulled out the notepad he brought. He looks positively wounded. 

"Mercer? He didn't hear anything about it." 

Scott doesn't let up. He turns the puppy dog eyes on and stares at Erica. Stiles thinks he can see his lip quiver. 

"...But I might be able to get him to talk to you." Erica relents. Stiles does a tiny happy dance in his head. Scott is a bloody genius sometimes. 

Scott beams at her. “That would be awesome. Our boss would skin us alive if we messed this up.” 

Erica stares at him, blinks a few times before letting out a sweet laugh. She places a hand on Scott’s shoulder, her ridiculous heels making her much taller, before leaning into him. “It must suck being the newbies, huh?” 

Scott’s shoulders slump a little. “You can tell, just like that? I thought we looked really professional.” 

Erica steps away from Scott  to give them both once overs before folding her arms over her chest. She smiles sweetly, almost like a mother trying to tell her daughter about pimples or something. ‘It’s pretty obvious. You’ve got a notepad, sweetie.” 

Scott responds by smiling sheepishly, rubbing his neck with his palm. Stiles just smirks because even he knows better than to bring a notepad. Reporters usually use recorders. Although their newspaper, The Beacon, probably does reporting with notepads. They don’t have much funding, nor are their stories even remotely entertaining. 

The elevator pings and Erica leads them into a room that Stiles suspects is the employee lounge. There’s a table with a few mismatching chairs sitting around it. On the far wall is a counter with a coffee machine and a microwave on it. There’s even a small sink that has a few containers carelessly tossed into it. Erica tells them to take a seat on the only couch in the room. She wanders out of the room without a word, hopefully to look for Mercer. 

Scott’s face has gone pale once again and Stiles can only wonder what’s going through his head. He doesn’t bother asking because he knows that Scott likes to psych himself out. He’ll be back on his game as soon as Mercer or Erica walk in. That’s why Stiles really appreciates having Scott on missions like that. If anyone has the “fake it till you make it” strategy down, it’s Scott. 

Erica walks back in, and Scott straightens up his seat, just as Stiles knew he would. Behind her walks in man, posture slouched and tired. Stiles instantly feels sorry, wondering exactly what this guy has been through. 

“Mercer has been nice enough to answer some questions for you two,” Erica says, gesturing to the man behind her. Mercer just rubs a hand over his face. “Just make it quick since he is pretty busy.”                                                                                                                              

Scott nods eagerly, standing up. Mercer shakes his head and gestures for him to sit down again. Scott looks unsure, but he takes his seat all the same. 

“What do you boys need to know?” Mercer drags one of the chairs from the table and put it in front of them for him to sit on. 

“Well, we’re here about the Johnson case. We know that he has plead guilty to the charges?” Scott starts, lifting his notepad and bring a pen to the page. Mercer raises his eyebrows at that, but doesn’t say anything about it. 

“His lawyer wanted him to plead guilty to avoid a lengthy trial when there was incriminating evidence against him.” Mercer shrugs. “We had prints.”

“What exactly lead to his arrest?” Stiles asks, just because he’s curious.

“One of our victims gave us a description before they died in the hospital. She was attacked around his apartment. When we published a written description of him in the local paper, a neighbor called in.”

Scott is enthusiastically taking notes. Stiles doesn’t really get why, since they aren’t supposed to be asking questions about Johnson at all. He’s just waiting for a perfect opportunity to sneak in a question about Laura. Luckily Scott gives him just the chance. 

“Erica is the prosecutor on your case, right? She’s pretty young for a head prosecutor.” Scott says conversationally. Mercer’s eyes drop to the floor and his frown grows deeper. He rubs a hand over his face again, though this time the pressure of it leaves his face flushed. 

“Erica isn’t head prosecutor. She was working with Laura. Laura Hale. You don’t know about her?” Mercer doesn’t even look Scott in the eyes as he says it, and Stiles heart breaks a little. He’s sure that the look on Mercer’s face isn’t guilt at all. 

“Right, we heard about her. Erica didn’t take her place?” Scott presses on, and Stiles wants to hit him. 

“It isn’t that simple. No one even knows who killed Laura.” The frown on Mercer’s face shifts from sadness to anger. Stiles wants to hightail it out of there but instead he shifts his glasses on the bridge of his nose and shuffles slightly in his seat. 

“Do you think that Johnson might have had something to do with it?” Scott’s own smile is faltering at this point, his empathy for Mercer winning over his job ethic.

“We thought about it. But there was nothing linking Johnson to Laura’s death. No phone calls, no contacts. A guy like Johnson doesn’t have many friends.” 

“Exactly what was Laura to you?” Stiles hears himself say, and really, brain to mouth filter? Nonexistent. Mercer flinches and Stiles mirrors him, knowing he just crossed some line. Honestly, he shouldn’t have asked anything personal at all, not when he was already a hundred percent sure that Mercer was innocent.

“We were partners. Always pissing each other off.” Mercer smiles, but it’s hardly a happy one. Stiles contemplates just dropping on the floor and apologizing. Maybe buy the guy an ice cream.                   

"Were you a suspect?" Scott asks suddenly, gaze hard. Stiles turns to gape at him.

Merce grits his teeth and says, "Yes," just as Erica storms over.

"Mercer didn't kill Laura, Jesus Christ. He was in love with her." She sounds incredulous, as if Mercer having a hand in Laura's death was completely crazy. Stiles was willing to agree. 

"Reyes." Mercer groans, covering his face with both hands. Stiles thinks it's time to make a speedy exit. He scratches his neck with too much vigor. It's suppose to be the "lets blow this Popsicle stand" sign, but Scott doesn't even look at him. He's too busy staring open mouthed at Mercer. 

Stiles could be wrong, but there might even be a blush on Mercer's cheeks. Oh god. 

Mercer is in love with Laura. Derek's sister. His dead sister. 

"I'm so sorry." Scott whispers, voice almost watery. Stiles shares the sentiment. Mercer doesn't say anything, just waves them off. 

"Uh, that's enough for the article, right?" Stiles asks hopefully to Scott, who turns big eyes to him and nods eagerly. Erica seems to agree because she turns to lead them out without a word. 

The elevator ride down is decidedly more tense than the one up. Stiles has never been so glad to get in his Jeep in his entire life. He high tails it back to the hotel and tries not to think about the look on Mercer's face. 

He fails epically. 

▲

Stiles and Scott get back to find Danny reading a Sports Illustrated. He's sitting in front of Stiles' computer setup, looking particularly bored with the latest star athletes. Stiles only ever goes through those magazines for the pictures... 

"How's it going, boys?" Danny waves them in, somehow making the last bit sound obscene. Scott is too tired to be phased. 

"Going totally great. Gonna cry myself to sleep." Scott mumbles, collapsing onto Danny's lap. He wraps his arms around Danny's neck. "You wouldn't believe what we found out."

"Uh-oh." Danny sighs. He pushes Scott of his lap, dusting of his jeans as he stands. "You can tell me all about it while we write the report for Lydia."

Scott groans. He enjoys field work but paperwork? Not his thing. Danny offers him a hand, and Scott takes it. They leave Stiles alone with Derek. Who is... Exactly where Stiles left him ten hours ago. 

That isn't weird. Nope. Stiles doesn't judge people. 

Derek's staring at him from over his sketchbook, a creepily intense expression on his face. Stiles feels oddly vulnerable under such a gaze and raises a hand to scratch the back of his ear awkwardly. After not wearing them for so long, his glasses were beginning to rub where the arms rested. 

"So..." Stiles starts for lack of anything better to do. Derek's eye twitches. "Had fun with Danny?"

Derek's eyes narrow into an impressive scowl. "Tons. Ethan even came by. We had a wild party."

Stiles feels his eyes go wide before his face breaks out into a wide grin. "That was a joke, oh my god, are meteors falling from the sky? Are there zombies in the street?” 

Derek huffs, his eyes darting around Stiles’ face. Stiles continues to grin at him.

“It's cool that you met Ethan though. He's the good twin." 

"Danny thinks so." Derek says and he sounds almost... Angry? Stiles doesn't know what could have possibly happened. Unless Danny and Ethan were being grossly lovey-dovey? They're almost worse than Allison and Scott. 

"You're wearing glasses." Derek observes. 

"Yeah. They were for the... Thing." Stiles says pushing them further up his nose. 

"The thing.” Derek parrots, his eyes moving over the frame.

Stiles just nods and smirks, because Derek is doing a lot of staring. 

Maybe Derek likes what he sees. 

The thought makes Stiles a little hot under the collar and his eyelids drop slightly as he watches Derek watch him. After a short while though, or at least until Stiles starts to wonder about Derek’s lips, Mercer and the information he had given them pops back into the forefront of his mind. 

Stiles doesn't know if he should say anything. So he just awkwardly flops down onto the empty bed, crossing his arms behind his head. The silence settles over them, the sound of pencil on paper replacing words.  

Derek breaks the silence, startling Stiles slightly. 

"Scott actually gonna cry himself to sleep?" He asks.

"Nah. He'll get over it. Mercer just got to him..." Fuck, he was not supposed I say that. 

"Got to him… How?" Derek presses on, surprisingly calm. Stiles raises his eyes from Derek’s cheeks and jawline to look at him properly, he can't really keep the news to himself. It’s not breaking the rules anyway… not really. 

"Mercer was in love with your sister. Still is." Stiles answers turning his head away from Derek to look at the ceiling.

The words hang in the air unpleasantly and Stiles turns back to take in Derek’s reaction. 

Derek looks pained, as if Stiles punched him rather than spoke. He figures that with the nature of the news, he might as well have. 

Derek puts the sketchbook down by the side of his bed. 

"Thanks, for telling me." He says, sounding anything but grateful. 

"Uh, you're welcome?" Awkward. Why is every endeavor in Stiles’ life awkward? 

"It's just..." Derek trails off, but then shakes his head and continues. "It's good to know someone loved her."

Derek turns towards the wall, away from Stiles. He lies down, pulling the covers over his head, and Stiles can almost see the misery seeping of of him. 

Stiles gets up, hits the light switch, takes of his glasses, and then turns in as well.

It's going to be a long night.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the time Derek pulls back, eyes lidded and somehow darker, Stiles tries as gracefully as he can manage to suck the air back into his lungs.

Stiles feels the warm slide of coffee down his throat, the café offering solace from the stifling chilly temperatures of November air. He has no idea why he’s even drinking the stuff, it still tastes like liquid mud even after dumping spoons and spoons of sugar and heavy cream in it. Danny is watching him all but gagging at Stiles from behind the rim of his own mug before he sets it down and begins shuffling around in his backpack for a singular file. They had agreed to meet up in Yo Jo to talk about Laura, and Stiles was admittedly more than a little relieved for a change of scene. Trying to hide boners and pretending that Derek literally didn’t make his heart throb against his rib cage was more than a little exhausting.

“Find out anything interesting?” Stiles inquires, zoning in on the manila folder. Danny’s eyes flicker up to his and he’s scoffing in return.

“I wouldn’t use the word interesting. It’s more like an incredibly sad film, except real.”

Stiles’ eyebrows shoot up. “My interest is piqued, go on.”

Adjusting in his seat, he lets out a short exhale. “Where to even start,” he mumbles, rifling through the papers. “Has Derek ever told you about Kate?”

The guy never really talked about anything, especially when it involved his own personal affairs. They were pretty much like glorified strangers. Strangers that had an ungodly amount of sexual tension, unless that was just Stiles.  “Kate? No—no he hasn’t.”

“Apparently she was an ex-girlfriend of his, really fucked up in the head too.” Danny says tapping his temple a couple of times for sassy emphasis. 

A girlfriend?

Stiles might or might not have felt his heart sink at the piece of information. And it was really fucking petulant and stupid and this is exactly what happens when he lets his hormones get involved. Christ. The thought of Derek loving anyone, wholly and unconditionally, is something that Stiles can’t quite swallow, and he refuses to be jealous. Nope, nope, nope.

“What does this have to do with Laura?”

Danny leaned forward on his elbows as if getting ready to tell some highly confidential secret. “When Derek dated Kate he was sixteen, young, impressionable, vulnerable. Kate, an adult by law, took advantage of that, of him...“

Stiles was surprised with how much that made him angry, jaw tightening in response. “Was she arrested? For what she did?” He said all too quickly, voice clipped.

“Not immediately. Their relationship carried on for a while. She hit him a few times, roughed him up. Laura noticed the bruises and his lack of desire to paint and connected the dots herself. Eventually she sought the help of Mercer and they put together enough of a case to send her to prison for statutory rape.”

“And Derek? What happened to him?” 

“Laura got together with their parents and sought therapy for Derek. He supposedly still talks to a woman, Jennifer, every month. Whether it’s on Skype or in person or through a phone call.” 

Stiles cards a hand through his hair and closes his eyes for a moment because all he wants to do is run straight back to the hotel and smother Derek in his arms or something, despite that fact that that would definitely cross some imaginary boundary between them. He just… Derek hid it so well, the grief. 

“So the next logical thing would be to pay Kate a visit somehow and interrogate her.” Stiles suggests.  

“She can’t possibly be a suspect, not unless she somehow broke out of prison.” Danny says a little distractedly, scanning over the document in his hands. 

Stiles’ jaw hardens again at that prospect, something that doesn’t go unnoticed by Danny. 

“Take it easy el Diablo.” Danny grins reaching across the space between them and patting his newly curled fists. Stiles relaxes but his mind sprints ahead, trying to come up with as many possible scenarios as it can.

“Well… is it possible that she has someone or multiple someones on the outside that are willing to do her dirty work?” Stiles asks. Danny raises an eyebrow and hums quietly. 

“If you can find her we can pay her a visit and force some information out of her. Maybe even find out who murdered Laura.” Stiles continues. 

“Stiles, we don’t even know if she had anything to do with it.” Danny placates, becoming slightly concerned as Stiles begins to fidget in anticipation. 

Stiles goes quiet. Maybe his new found hatred for this woman was clouding his better judgment. Nonetheless, he didn’t give the slightest fuck. 

“Well if I had five minutes with her I could tell you whether she was involved or not.” Stiles snaps, surprising himself with the force of his anger. 

Danny sighs and closes the folder before meeting and holding Stiles’ angry gaze . 

“Listen Stiles, you’re not going to like this but if I was Lydia, I’d tell you that you’re becoming too emotionally involved in this case. Plus, I don’t think your… specialist skills are needed for this.” Danny says a little apprehensively.      

That throws Stiles off and the anger is gone in the blink of an eye.

“Hey! I am not emotionally compromised, there’s noth… wait, what do you mean specialist skills?” Stiles demands. 

Danny sighs again. “I know about your gap year Stiles.”

Any other time Stiles might have blanched and given himself away but his face remains stoic, uncharacteristically so.

“I was in the Philippines doing charity work.” Stiles says calmly. It was a perfectly believable tale; he had always talked about how much he wanted to visit, to help out as much as he could. 

Danny grins suddenly. “Stiles, I’m the countries’ youngest successful hacker, you really think you can hide things from me?” 

Stiles sits back in his chair, folds his arms, cocks his head slightly and gives Danny the once over. They sit like that for a minute, Danny watching Stiles watch him. 

“Hey.” Danny says quickly snapping his fingers in Stiles’ face. “You’re not doing that to me.” 

“Fine.” Stiles huffs. “If you won't let me and my special skills talk to Kate, then who?” Stiles asks unfolding his arms. 

“Well first I’ll have to see if anything is amiss with Kate’s prison records and if there is I’ll speak to Lydia about it. If she approves then there’s only one Metropolitan cop that I know of that would have a reason to visit Kate.” Danny continues, listing his improvised rota.        

Stiles almost knocks the table over as he slaps his hand down against it, causing Danny’s eyes to widen in response. 

“Mercer! He’ll help us. He’ll go in as an agent, get some warrant to question Kate, and we’re in!” 

Danny sighs. “We’re not in, he is. It’s a good idea though, if you get him to agree.” So apparently Stiles getting to personally meet with Kate wasn’t plausible, but this was the next best thing. Getting Mercer on their side wasn’t even a concern, nothing or no one made for better help than a law enforcement officer scorned. 

                                                                       ▲

 

So around this time of year, it was of pure tradition for the entire group to celebrate a Thanksgiving feast together. Since most of them never flew home for this particular holiday, one day they had all decided to just… buy a shitload of food and a turkey and spend the entire day preparing a meal together. Or well, the people that could actually cook spent most of the time in the kitchen and the remainder was either sprawled out on the couch drinking eggnog bourbon and trying to find a television show to veg out on or hovering in the kitchen, trying to make conversation. 

With all the events that had transpired in the previous days, Stiles couldn’t possibly, even in his worst mood, exclude Derek from the festivities. Besides, he didn’t really want to have to work shifts on Thanksgiving, so without much thought at all, he all but bolted into the motel room just before ten am, frosty fingers shoved in the depths of his parka. 

Derek was, to Stiles’ surprise, sprawled out on his side across the width of his bed, his head resting on his arm. The TV that Stiles had set up after enduring an evening of Derek insulting Stiles because he was ‘bored witless’. Stiles had joked that Derek didn’t have any wit to lose and Derek had responded by growling until Stiles phoned next door and told Danny to find a TV asap.   

“I want you to come celebrate Thanksgiving with us,” he immediately blurts because he knows if he lets the invitation fester, he’ll only chicken out at the last minute. The worst that Derek could say was ‘no’ anyways and the only consequence that would erupt from it was both him and Scott having to dip out on the celebration. Which neither of them wanted. 

Lydia’s famous stuffing had his name on it. And cranberry sauce. With gravy. Lots of it. 

The other’s eyes flicker up to his and for a moment he actually looks bewildered. 

“C’mon.” Stiles pleads, making particular use of his hands. “It’ll be fun. I swear. The food is great, the people are even better. I promise not to talk your ears off the entire night and if you ask me, that’s a pretty awesome deal.”

“There’s no reason for any of you to like me, let alone invite me into your home.”

Stiles’ face fell, seriousness taking its place. “I like you. And seriously, we’re all incredibly nice people. Just… just come and if you want to leave, I’ll bring you back here.” 

Derek’s eyebrows furrow and for the first time since him entering, they make eye contact. Stiles heart does that weird thump-de-dud thing again and the only thing he can do is cough overdramatically and break the overbearingly intense stare. 

“Okay.”

▲

 

“Hey Derek! Glad you could make it out, man. We have drinks in the kitchen and living room so help yourself.” Ethan greets and Stiles refuses to believe that it is of pure coincidence that him and Danny are wearing color-coordinated outfits. Nonetheless they’re both wearing subdued orange tones, Ethan in a snug sweater and Danny in a knitted cardigan. Somehow both him and Derek shared simultaneous looks of amusement at the spectacle. 

“Thanks for having me.” he returns, even offering what looks like a modest smile. 

They move into the kitchen and greet the others before Stiles herds Derek into the living room.  

“Gets kinda congested in there.” He says jokingly, grabbing a can of Sprite from the cooler, leaving the liquor for later, after the food. Derek follows suit when Stiles angles the dark blue cooler box towards him, lifting a Coke from the ice before they both move to sit on the couch, the others moving around the kitchen a pleasant background noise.   

“Do you guys do this every year?” Derek asks.  

“Pretty much. We try to be festive, y’know? Since we’re all so far from our families. It’s the best we can do, but I don’t think it’s too bad.” Stiles licks his lips, eyes fixated on the metal top of the can. “I’m sorry you couldn’t spend Thanksgiving with your sister this year, Derek.” 

Derek is silent for a moment, but nods. There’s something earnest in his irises. 

Stiles grins sheepishly. “We’re trying.” 

They sit like that in companionable silence for a few more beats. 

“Thank you, by the way, for offering… this.” Derek Hale was thanking him, actually thanking him. Stiles grin may or may not have widened tenfold. 

“What can I say? You’re pretty good company when you’re not communicating solely through glares and growls.” 

Derek rolls his eyes chuckling softly. “Likewise, as long as you’re talking at a reasonable speed.” 

He pressed a hand to his chest, lips popping open in bewilderment. “Is that your way of saying ‘Stiles, you talk too much?’ Because I’m offended, seriously, seriously offended. That’s...That’s hurtful, Hale. I always thought it was endearing, y’know? There’s never a dry moment.”

Derek snorts. “Are you aware that you’re doing it again?” 

Stiles laughs, actually breaks down into guffaws in spite of it not being that funny and Derek joins along. It isn’t a full out cackle but his chest and shoulders are moving and a hand has risen to rub at his stubbled jaw. 

And Derek is really, really fucking gorgeous when he smiles. 

“You can’t deny that my chronic diarrhea of the mouth situation is totally making you happy. Admit it, you enjoy my quirks. Every. Single. One of them.” Somehow they had end up closer on the couch, definitely closer than they were several minutes ago, and Stiles actually reaches out and drags the pad of his thumb along his cheek to catch the fallen eyelash. Derek freezes and Stiles immediately recoils after his mind vehemently reminds him that this is reality and not the beginning of one of his embarrassingly sensual wet dreams. 

“God, I’m sorry. I, uh… it’s an instinctive thing. Your eyelash, it was just laying there on your cheek and I couldn’t just leave it there, y’know? My job is to protect your well being and... well, do you know how annoying hairs are when they get in your eye? They’re like a serious safety hazard. So, you’re, uh, you’re welcome.” 

Derek doesn’t say anything, instead he just stares and Stiles wants to spontaneously combust. Thankfully, Lydia enters into the living room in a food-stained apron, bright red fly-aways curtaining her face. She shoots them a weird look but waves her spoon towards the kitchen. 

“Is this the famous Derek Hale I’ve heard about?” She somehow announces rather than asks, an uncharacteristic smile stretching across her features. “Nice to meet you. I’m Lydia. Lydia Martin.” 

Derek nods and Christ he’s still not talking. Stiles broke him. Stiles broke Derek Hale. 

“Dinner ready?” Stiles questions and he’s standing up from the couch and dusting imaginary dirt off his trousers. If there is one person that can singlehandedly screw up a relationship in a little under ten seconds, it’s him. Stiles Stilinski for the grand award. 

“Yup! We’re just getting the table ready but you two can start filing in.” 

Stiles moves into the kitchen way too quickly, immediately grabbing a salad bowl and speed walking through the other archway into the dining room. He’ll just… they’ll never talk about this. He’s pretty certain Derek doesn’t want to think back to that excruciatingly awkward moment anyways, so really, they’re dandy. Perfectly dandy. Everything is right and beautiful and perfect in the world. 

“Dude, you’re sweating. It’s like fifty degrees in here.” Scott seems to suddenly materialize in front of him, eyebrows knitted with concern. “Are you alright?” 

Stiles blinks rapidly before stupidly nodding. “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be okay? I’m totally okay, dude. Stop being paranoid.” 

“You did take your Adderall this morning, right?” 

“What do I look like to you? Evel Knievel? I did, I took them. I’m just a little warm.” Stiles maneuvers around Scott and places the salad bowl on the table and sits down. Eventually everyone files in and sits where Lydia points. Danny was the last one to enter the kitchen carrying two bottles of champagne. 

Dinner is awkward, and tense, at least it feels that way for Stiles. And it’s the first time he can remember not enjoying a thanksgiving meal. He blames it on the voice that he has apparently lost for the first time in, well… forever. 

He spends the meal glancing around the table occasionally snagging a piece of food and adding it to his plate. By the time dinner ends and people migrate into the living room for more drinks, Stiles has had enough of his own awkwardness and moves to the front door already shrugging on his coat after making Scott promise to pack up a few leftovers for them to pig out on later. 

“Why are you leaving so soon?” Allison questions, stepping up behind him, bottom lip jutting out in disappointment. Both her and Scott really have this sad kitten thing down pat. Nonetheless, he uses his perspiration problem to his advantage, feigning a cough.

“I think I’m just coming down with a cold. A good night’s rest and an ice bag should fix me up in a day or two. You guys have fun though. I know I’m the life of the party and all but you guys’ll survive without me. I promise.” 

She rolls her eyes but nods. “Alright. You don’t need Scott to drive you home or something? And what about Derek?” Her eyes dart towards the dark-haired man stuck in the middle a sass-off between Jackson and Lydia. 

“Nah, I’m good. Maybe Scott can bring him back to the hotel after the party though? I don’t wanna ruin it for him.” More like Stiles doesn’t want to be subjected to the inevitable awkwardness that will undoubtedly come with him driving Derek ‘home’. 

“Yeah, sure. Scott won’t mind.” she replies, another warm smile spreading across her features before she wraps him up into a hug. “Get better, okay?” 

“Thanks.” 

Stiles just about makes the walk of shame back to his car, completely unsuspecting of the hand that closes around his wrist and forcibly tugs him backwards. He mentally prepares himself for a fight but instead a familiar face to comes into view. 

Derek. 

Derek’s standing right there... in front of him… and then he’s kissing him. Warm and gentle and Stiles shivers because Derek’s fingers are really fucking cold and they’re in his hair. He slumps against the door of his Jeep and Derek uses the opportunity to flatten his body flush against Stiles’. And really, fuck the fact that it’s almost winter, fuck that it’s thirty degrees outside, because his insides feel like an inferno and Stiles actually whimpers against Derek’s lips. He has no idea where to put his hands so he settles on Derek’s hips.

By the time Derek pulls back, eyes lidded and somehow darker, Stiles tries as gracefully as he can manage to suck the air back into his lungs. 

“Wow.” He manages and God someone needs to pinch him right fucking now. This couldn’t be real. 

“If you were going for the surprise factor there, buddy, that was good. Totally unexpected. Although, I think you’ll need to do it again, just to make sure I’m not hallucinating. Think you ca…”

The last part of his sentence is muffled by Derek’s lips crashing against his again.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He sketches the outline of Laura’s face, the one he remembers from his teenage years rather than the one of her adult life that had always seemed tight and tired by whatever case she was investigating.

It’s safe to say that it’s one of the most desperate and slightly more fumbling kisses of Derek’s life. But, hey, apparently he’s more attracted to Stiles than he previously thought and perhaps should be. 

But Derek finds it hard to care, especially with the way Stiles’ breath is hitching and his fingertips are digging into Derek’s hips hard enough that he can feel each individual pressure point. Derek shifts, his right hand buried in the hair at the back of Stiles’ head while his left hand reaches behind Stiles, its warmth pressing against cool glass of the jeep’s driver’s window to steady them as they push closer.

Derek tries not to think about the other kisses he’s experienced in the past, but it’s a hard task to accomplish. It’s clear that he’s about to lead himself down the worst possible path but Stiles distracts him by moving one of his hands from Derek’s hip to the flat plane of his clothed stomach and letting out a quiet moan.

Derek’s chest tightens slightly at the small sound and his whole body flexes against Stiles, his muscles rolling. Theres a squeaking sound as his fingertips flatten out and drag through the condensation his warm palm made against the cool window, his fingers curling against the glass as the hand in Stiles’ hair tightens. 

Derek catches himself canting his hips into the small gap between them as Stiles’ hand slides from Derek’s stomach, around his side to his back, before fisting in the shirt under his leather jacket. A groan begins deep in Derek’s chest, and again he can’t bring himself to care about any of the reasons this might be a bad thing, so he cants his hips again and this time they both grunt as the front of their jeans brush. 

He’s about to do it again when Stiles begins to turn his head away. Derek chases him and a grin blooms on Stiles face as he places his forehead against Derek’s and pushes, creating some space between them. They’re more than a little breathless and Derek watches Stiles as their breath creates small puffs of mist between them. Theres a flush on Stiles’ cheek bones and when he looks up Derek freezes because Stiles’ eyes are like old whiskey thats been left in front of a window or held in your hands for too long. They’re all color and warmth and made brighter by Stiles’ grin and Derek’s never known anything like this.

“You wanna go back to the motel?” Stiles asks quietly.

Derek can only nod. 

▲ 

Stiles is freaking out, not just metaphorically, but properly because Derek is less than an arms length away from him in the passenger seat, and he’s driving them back to the motel, and then they’re gonna…well, probably, if they’re both on the same wavelength here. Because if they aren’t and Stiles ended up making a complete ass of himself, then there is no point in living anymore, really. 

Alright, so there was an overwhelmingly large possibility he was being dramatic, but Stiles didn’t fare well with rejection. And Derek rejecting him was an insanely scary thought. 

Stiles lets out a shaky breath as quietly as possible, he doesn’t want Derek to think he’s having second thoughts because he’s not… not really, not when he thinks back five minutes ago. It’s just… the silence is killing him but somehow it feels wrong to talk right now, not when they’re both more than freaked out about this whole thing. Talking would just get rid of the dizzying euphoria that made this whole moment feel like a really intense, really realistic, wet dream. 

But Stiles rationality, completely eludes the filter to his mouth. 

“This is crazy.” he mutters, because there goes his chronic verbal diarrhea syndrome again. Or ADHD. Or whatever you want to call it. Derek turns, a frown replacing the slightly slack jawed expression he had been sporting for the entire ride. Stiles kinda wants to kick himself. 

“What?” Derek snaps slightly, surprised Stiles had spoken.

Stiles glances at Derek, his hands tightening on the steering wheel as they pass the city’s exit sign, the same sign that appear at the exit of all cities and towns. The one that reminds drivers that there is a motel in the next mile. When Stiles was younger, it used to remind him of the ‘point of no return’ cliche. He supposes it’s disturbingly symbolic to the situation at hand. 

“I mean I’m nervous as hell, really freakin’ nervous, and I’ve only been with like two people and that was over quick enough for me to earn a nickname and I never thought I’d be nervous about this because it’s you, y’know? And I just… I didn’t expect to be as freaked out about this as I am. That’s all.” 

Stiles’ tone is airy like he’s trying to make light of the situation, and he hopes that the rational part of Derek’s brain will accept that Stiles is nervous and that this rambling is a by-product. Unfortunately, it clearly pisses Derek off. 

“What do you mean ‘about this’?” He demands, his voice harsh. 

Stiles glances at him again as they pull into the parking lot of the motel, swinging round to the space closest to the entrance before cutting the engine off and pulling the keys from the ignition. 

“I just… you're older and you’ve been with older women and…” Stiles would of continued trying to explain his nerves and his slip up and why he felt slightly inadequate, but Derek freezes, whole body rigid, eyes wider than usual. Stiles instantly realizes what he has done. 

“Derek, I…” Stiles rushes to right himself but everything’s out in the open and there’s no possible way he can explain this. The damage had been done so long ago that it was inevitable that things would go wrong like this. 

Derek says nothing, his face going blank. He reaches for the door handle and lets himself out. He was so out of it he didn’t even slam the door. This was a different kind of rage, more accepting but no less harsh, maybe it was harsher.

Stiles watches Derek disappear inside the motel, feeling guiltier than he had ever felt in his twenty one years. 

“Smooth, Stilinski. Real fucking smooth.” He grumbles at himself glaring at the spot where Derek’s tense back had disappeared. 

▲

Thanksgiving had reminded Derek that it was nearly christmas, a season he had never really liked, not since Kate. He spent a lot of time in denial saying he didn’t need help in the typical ‘I’m a teenager and I think I have everything figured out’ manner. It took a few months of suppressed misery before he finally relented and sought out professional help. 

After that it took several years of practice. 

Several years of being surrounded by his sisters and his friends to realise that he’d had everything he needed to be happy the whole time. He swore to himself that he’d enjoy the next Christmas, but then Laura was gone and he never got the chance to show her and everyone else that he was healing. 

Derek curses Stiles and his whole stupid team for dredging up the past. But he supposes it isn’t their fault that he had never told them about any of it, or really dealt with any of it either. 

Derek turns off the shower and dries off in silence before pulling on his dark jeans and black polo shirt. He’d remembered to bring his clothes into the bathroom this time, not wanting a repeat of the ‘backward strip tease’ inccident, especially after last night. 

It turns out he needn’t have worried about another awkward incident because when he steps out of the bathroom the room is empty. 

Derek huffs rolling his shoulders, attempting to dislodge the tension that always seems to settle there. He shouldn’t have to feel guilty about last night, Stiles was the one who messed up but even so… Derek couldn’t help that he was hyper aware of Stiles’ regret and he knows that Stiles is sorry. The fact that he is standing in an empty room right now is testimony to that. 

Derek drops onto the end of his bed and is reaching for his socks when the door swings open. He head snaps up embarrassingly fast, expecting it to be Stiles and Derek doesn’t know whether to be disappointed or grateful that it’s Scott whose shutting the door behind him. 

Derek settles for angry as he slips his feet into his boots because apparently Stiles is avoiding him and even though Derek doesn’t know whether he wants to see Stiles or not Stiles has taken the matter into his own has by leaving Derek here in the figurative ‘dark’. 

“Morning.” Scott smiles dropping into the chair in front of the desk. Normally his cheer would grate on Derek’s nerves, especially this early in the morning but today it’s almost a welcome distraction. 

“Morning.” Derek replies as he finishes tying his laces. After a moment he stands and turns towards Scott who looks up from his phone which is apparently glued to his fingers what with the way he never seems to put it down. 

“I want to go out.” Derek tells him, fixing Scott with that an unwavering gaze.

“Umm…I don…” Scott starts but is interrupted when Derek sighs and rolls his shoulders again. 

“Listen, I know going outside wasn’t part of this contract but… I’m going to go insane if I keep watching daytime television.” Derek tells him. Scott stares at him for a while before responding.

“I’ll have to clear it with Lydia and let the twins know.” Scott says in a professional tone. 

Derek nods. 

▲

Derek asked to see Laura so on their way they stopped off for breakfast at the closest drive through. When they arrived in the church’s parking lot Scott turned the engine off before slumping back, leaving the keys in the ignition of Danny’s car. 

Scott rolls his head towards Derek. “Take all the time you need.” he says. 

Derek nods, grabbing his sketchbook and charcoal set off the dashboard and letting himself out. He takes his time treading the already familiar gravel path, through the green to Laura’s grave. The grave still doesn’t have a headstone, and that bugs him more than it did last time he was here. Maybe he can draw one while he’s here. 

He squats down at the foot of the grave his eyes lingering bitterly on the temporary plaque before he rocks back on his heels until his backside meets the grass beneath him. He sits there for a timeless moment, his sketchbook and utensils a comforting weight in his lap as he stretches his legs out to run alongside the length of the grave similar to the way they used to sit when they were kids. One of them leaning against the headboard of one of their beds, the other leaning against the footboard, their legs always touching as they talked about school or sports or anything they were interested in.

He doesn’t feel the need to speak this time, not like when they were kids or like the last couple of times he was here, he just enjoys the silence, feeling closer to his family then he had since Cora left for college. 

After a while he opens his sketch book and turns to a clean page, carefully avoiding a particular page by purposely turning two pages at the same time. He doesn’t need or want a reminder of what his life had morphed into since Laura died. 

He sketches the outline of Laura’s face, the one he remembers from his teenage years rather than the one of her adult life that had always seemed tight and tired by whatever case she was investigating. He sketches in her shoulders and a hazy background then uses the charcoal to fill out the grey lines and define the features he remembers so well. 

He draws until Scott appears above him, two paper bags in his hand, his shadow falling across Derek’s sketch book. 

“I brought lunch.” He smiles, jiggling the bags slightly.

“Thank you.” Derek says quietly, raising a hand to accept Scott’s offering. Scott passes it down to him and stands there awkwardly like he’s deliberating on whether to hang around or head back to the car. He stands there until Derek nods at the patch of grass next to his extended legs.

“Thanks.” Scott grins, sinking to the ground, his side facing Derek, his legs crossed. 

Derek gazes at him for a moment before opening the paper bag to find a bottle of water and something heavy wrapped in tin foil. He stares at it his jaw going a little slack. 

“Stiles mentioned you liked Chipotle.” Scott says, around a mouth full of his own burrito. Derek looks up at Scott who turns back to Derek when his realizes the man isn’t eating. 

“What?” Scott frowns. “Did I get the wrong thing, steak, rice and salsa, right?”

Stiles. That hyperactive, over talkative idiot, remembered his order and that should not make Derek feel warmer inside and out. 

“I… no. It’s fine.” Derek manages. 

They eat in comfortable silence until Scott nods in Derek’s general direction, glancing at the sketch book laying open at Derek’s side. 

“Working on anything interesting?” He asks casually and Derek’s glad of the respect Scott is showing by not peering at the open book or grabbing for it like so many others, including his family, had done. 

“A portrait.” Derek responds after swallowing a too big mouthful. 

“Of your… of your sister?” Scott asks, voice lower more careful but somehow completely avoiding pity, patronisation and condescension. 

Derek nods. 

Scott glances at the page again before grinning. “It’s good. Where’d you learn to draw?” 

Derek shrugs. “I don’t know. Naturally.” 

“That’s cool. You ever considered a job in architecture or car design? I bet you could rake in millions.” Scott suggested, finishing his burrito and reaching for his drink. 

Derek had actually considered car design in the past but he didn’t enjoy it as much as he thought he would, although looking back now he isn’t sure if that was because of the style of art or because of the damage Kate had done. 

“Yeah. It just wasn’t as good as drawing whatever I felt like.” Derek says looking down at the almost finished portrait of Laura. 

“Yeah, I can understand that.” Scott says putting the tin foil from his burrito in the paper bag before scrunching both into a ball between his fists. 

▲ 

Once Derek was finished Scott took his rubbish and left, reminding him that they had to be back at the motel by six, in time for Stiles’ shift. 

Derek spent the rest of the afternoon finishing the portrait of Laura and roughly sketching some ideas for her head stone. There were several versions but he didn’t want to commit to one without Cora and their parents seeing them. 

The best he could do that afternoon was ask Scott to pick up a small picture frame with a prop on the back panel so that he could leave the portrait with Laura. 

By the time they made it back to the motel the gloom of a near winter evening was really setting in. Derek stepped out of the car, his eyes sweeping over the three story building and around the parking lot. The gloom was casting odd, half shadows that created a sense of peace in an almost Alice in Wonderland sort of way. 

After his day outside it felt odd and somehow wrong to return to the motel but where else was he going to go? The idea of his loft didn’t feel quite right either.

They made their way inside, Derek nodding at the man at the front desk in a silent greeting while Scott phoned Lydia to let her know that they were back, and that the day had passed without incident. 

Derek was almost dreading returning to the room and not just because it felt weird to be indoors again. 

▲

Stiles is passed out, sprawled across the bed on his stomach again when Derek and Scott enter. Derek pauses for a second because that is the same innocent but somehow obscene position that caused the reverse strip tease post shower moment.

“Oh good.” Scott says stepping around Derek and moving towards Stiles. He stops at the end of the bed and raises his foot, kicking Stiles in his exposed ass. Stiles grumbles and lifts himself up on his elbow and squints over his shoulder at Scott. 

“...What?” Stiles mumbles.

Scott nudges Stiles’ foot with his knee. “Get up. You’re on duty.” Scotts says, grinning as Derek moves past Scott, throwing his sketch book and utensils on his bed before shrugging out of his jacket and throwing that on the bed too. 

Stiles watches Derek’s movements as the remnants of sleep fall away and he becomes more alert. Scott’s gaze moves from Stiles shifting into a sitting position, to Derek who is standing by his dresser, both of them resolutely avoiding the other’s eyes. 

Scott clears his throat a little, feeling the atmosphere go from sudden awkwardness to obvious tension. Stiles looks to Scott then as he stands up.

“You ok?” Scott asks, his gaze still shifting between the pair. 

Stiles makes an odd face, his arms flapping slightly as he shrugs. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be.” 

Scott’s eyes narrow slightly, contemplating Stiles for a moment before letting out a thoughtful hum.

“Just checking…” He says patting Stiles’ shoulder. “I’ll see you two tomorrow, I’ve got a date with Allison.” 

Across the room Derek tenses and Stiles follows suit, the mention of an Argent reminding him of last night’s mess up. 

“Yeah.” Stiles says with forced enthusiasm, placing his own hand on Scott’s shoulder before steering him towards the door. 

“See you tomorrow.” Stiles smiles as Scott steps out. Stiles stays where he is watching as Scott disappears into the team room next door. 

Feeling the tension mounting in the room behind him Stiles shuts the door and turns to face Derek because he is not a coward and he does not want to follow Scott out and slam the door behind them, no sir. 

Stiles turns to find Derek glaring at him his hands in loose fists at his sides. And Stiles decides that this is the opportune moment to explain himself. 

“Listen, Derek…” Stiles begins, stepping forwards.

“Wait.” Derek says suddenly, causing Stiles to tense. “I’m not… I’m not angry. I mean I was last night, but… that’s not your fault.”

Stiles blinks once, then twice, and a third time, mouth forming the words but no actual sound escaping. A large, very large portion of him, had prepared for the backlash, and well, when there was nothing, not even a fizzle of irritation, he just stands there. Like a bumbling idiot. An infinitely surprised, bumbling idiot. 

Stiles wasn’t sure if it was weird that had become acutely aware of Derek’s little ticks, although that might also have something to do with his gap year. But Stiles never fails to notice the way Derek lifts his hand to scratch at his stubble whenever he felt even the slightest bit flustered or embarrassed. Now that Stiles thinks about it, Derek isn’t all too hard to understand. It just a case of knowing him. 

“Look, Stiles. I don’t know what… I thought I was doing last night. I…” Derek tries pathetically and his eyes look bloodshot exhausted.

“I don’t regret it.” Stiles blurts, cutting Derek off immediately and saving them both from an awkward situation. 

Derek stares at him again and just like that, the tension dissipates. Stiles relaxes because if there’s one thing he’s absolutely certain about in life, it’s how ridiculously good Derek makes him feel. 

“I know, damn it I know it wasn’t very professional and Lydia will literally stab me in the lung with her ridiculous stilettos if she ever finds out, but I don’t regret it. The only thing I will regret, is having this conversation if it goes wrong and you say you never want to do… that again because in case you haven’t realized Derek, I don’t do well with rejection.” 

Derek continues to stare and Stiles is on the verge of speaking again when the weight of the silence disappears. 

“Just… don’t mention her, alright? I know you care but I just can’t… I’m not ready for that conversation and I have no idea if I’ll ever be.” Derek says firmly, voice clipped but sincere nonetheless. Stiles visibly relaxes. 

“Roger that.” Stiles grins and Derek can feel the corner of his mouth twitching because Stiles is just so different to what Derek used to want and imagine for himself. 

When Derek thinks about it, he can’t imagine how he ended up liking Stiles. Between the flailing, his incessant urge to pry, and that motor-mouth?! It’s enough to drive anyone to the brink of a psychological break down. But for some reason, some odd, random reason, Derek enjoyed every single one of Stiles’ quirks. 

At least Derek could understand why Stiles was interested in him, from a physical point of view. Derek is well aware of his appearance and is surprised that his stoic personality, which he is also well aware of, hasn’t deterred Stiles. 

Well, they do say opposites attract… but opposites this different?


End file.
